


What will they find when I am ripped apart?

by softcorevulcan



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Blow Jobs, Communication, Cuddling, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, PWP, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with a touch of plot, Slow Burn, TOS style plot, Telepathy, Vulnerability, hand holding, struggling to communicate to a frustrating degree, the slow burn is from fwb to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 69,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8574484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcorevulcan/pseuds/softcorevulcan
Summary: I love you Spock, written on my heart.  The story of how Jim Kirk realizes how in love he is (the answer is: without limit), and his messy attempts to do something about it, to try and make it a good thing for all parties involved. Or, how Jim and Spock go from friends, to friends with benefits, to that awkward grey zone that is unexpressed feelings and misunderstandings of what it all means, to lovers who have been dancing around that eventuality of the universe for far too long with far too much unnecessary fear.





	1. I want to make you feel good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim decides the best way to get what he wants - Spock to feel good - is to talk Spock into a friends with benefits situation. Then they can smooch and cuddle and make love to their hearts content. Well. Jim's content. If Spock is okay with that.
> 
> Because Jim's still much too afraid to admit it's love, and it's not exactly fading so much as getting exponentially worse, and he can't take just dancing around Spock without doing anything about it anymore. He's still not sure how he'll get to the real point, though. Or if he even should. So this middle distance will have to suffice for now.
> 
> Or, literally: Jim and Spock fumble to flirt and have a really awkward discussion about feelings, then hold hands as they get off. Hold hands the whole time. Saps.

Jim had a plan. So it might not be a perfectly outlined list of steps to take and backup actions if the first steps failed to achieve the desired result. But he wasn’t Spock. Generally an idea carried out with intuitive choices seemed to serve Jim well enough, especially the more emotional and less logical the circumstances. So, maybe, Jim Kirk wasn’t exactly the most skilled perfectionist when it came to relationships, maybe he had sort of an extremely flawed track record. Whatever.

He wanted this. And he’d been thinking about it for the longest time, approaching and tearing into it from every angle theoretically, and Jim had determined even if he fucked up it wasn’t going to be catastrophic. It was going to be, maybe, a little messy. Possibly very messy with a side of fucked in the not-good-way and a dash of distance that Jim would have to retrace his steps through. But with his current half-formed strategies, at least, Jim could not see anything being permanently ruined if he didn’t succeed at first. And a reasonably high probability that he’d get everything he could possibly imagine wanting if he just stayed persistent, adjusted his approach accordingly as the situation developed, and maintained the universal constant of being willing to engage seemingly-no-win scenarios until they improved in his favor.

Consistency was key here. Not logic, not necessarily any priorly established methods that studies suggested were perhaps most effective in this sphere. With the goal he had in mind, anyway, any preconceived notions of what the norm should be were useless anyway.

He knew his friend pretty well. Jim would even admit to himself, that his own ego was tempted to believe he knew Spock better than anyone else did.

Jim knew Spock. Knows Spock. And Spock is not actually a terribly predictable man. At least not where it’s going to count. So like playing chess with Spock, any other strategy regarding the guy has to be a combination of careful planning, illogical failings that might aid in long term gains, and lots of reliance on pure instinct when the guy least expects it.

It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but Jim. As long as it gets him what he wants.

 

Jim is not actually very drunk. In fact, he’s been burning off tipsy and he’s probably got a low enough blood alcohol level right now to pilot the Enterprise legally, although he has no intention of doing so. 

Spock, it seems, is either less knowledgeable on Jim’s alcohol tolerance than he thinks he is, or more biased on the negative effects of the substance on humans rationality then he’d care to admit. Because Spock, bless the guy, is using those perfect long slender fingers and those perfect large palms to steer Jim, who is feigning lack of balance, through the door to the Captain’s quarters and over to the bed.

Just as Spock, sweetest sweetheart in the galaxy even as he’s got another nice flat non-expression relaxing his features, is releasing Jim onto the bed (presumably to go to sleep), Jim grabs onto that lovely bony wrist of Spock’s left hand as it begins to withdraw. “Wait.”

He knows what he’s doing. Maybe Spock knows what he’s doing, Nyota mentioned touch telepathy once in regard to Vulcans, in depth. Jim had researched it later but it seemed nigh impossible to find more information on since Vulcan’s servers were non existent post -- that wasn’t what Jim wanted to think about right now.

He looked up at Spock with eyes half lidded and let himself sound as emotional as the desires that now began drifting in his mind. “Stay, Spock.” He tugged lightly, no way he was going to affect his first officer’s stronger body unless Spock was letting him.

And how delicious it was, nerve endings lighting up with some fantastic surge of goodness, touching Spock skin to skin as Jim tugged him down until he was sitting stiffly next to him on top of the blanket, feigning reluctance -- Spock was sitting less than a foot away right now because he was purposely indulging Jim.

Mercifully and to his own controlled dismay, Jim lets his hand slide away from Spock and shifts to a more comfortable place by the pillows, half laying and half leaning on one arm as he regards his friend. “You’re tired too,” Jim states simply, like he’s discussing the facts regarding an upcoming mission. “You’ve been working double shifts making sure the Neraidan diplomats have been what they actually say they are.” He traces circles into the pillow beside him, with the fingers of his free hand, looking there instead of at Spock. Pretending there’s not an extra meticulous focus on his friend tonight, letting Spock relax and act like he’s not the full focus of Jim in this as any private instant between them.

Jim lets his words drift off, hoping Spock’s been reveling enough in mock non-attention from Jim to have lowered the tenseness he adopts when Jim tries some of his more obvious moves. He lets his eyes flicker back to Spock, who is indeed more loose and pliant now, casually considering the door like he’s going to let Jim mumble for a while and leave after his captain has fallen asleep.

Ha. Jim is nowhere near that incapacitated, as previously established. Poor, naive, raised a Vulcanly way darling. “Yeah, yeah, I know, rest,” Jim rambles, sure without a look or words from Spock that the guy was going to beat that dead argument in place of smothering Jim into the bed physically. And. Ah. One day… hopefully soon. Jim wouldn’t mind half as much if Spock made a habit of forcing him into bed that way instead. “You rest too, buddy. Here. My bed’s as good as yours.”

Spock’s looking his way again, mouth poised to bleat out some adorable monotone retort but Jim’s got an over exaggerated arm swinging into Spock’s shoulder as their eyes lock, and then he’s clumsily pulling Spock into bed next to him and pushing in messy gentle motions until Spock’s laying down next to him. Looking just shy of exasperated, a touch of fondness in the way his eyes light up as they melt into Jim’s, and the slightest tenseness of his brows like he’s beginning to suspect that Jim is just a smidge too coordinated to actually be inebriated.

But despite any suspicions Spock may have, he lets Jim push him down, even though the strength behind it is lacking considerably compared to Jim’s usual abilities. Positively soft, the way Jim is touching him now. Jim moves to much more forcefully yank the blanket out from under them and put it above them instead, and as he sees Spock push himself back up to sit -- but not bolt -- Jim decides to interpret it as a positive sign that Spock just might, potentially, be amenable to the next risky moves he wants to take.

Spock’s always been -- enigma isn’t the right word. Revelation isn’t either. Spock has always been… Spock. And Jim could probably live out the rest of his life, Spock at his side, and never stop being fascinated and enthralled and excited about him.

 

Jim’s had lovers before. A lot, depending on how you define ‘lover’. People he pursued before Starfleet, when he just really wanted company. Enchanting individuals like Gaila, who actually wanted maybe a bit more then company and felt amazing to try that with -- though the ‘I love you’ came pretty unexpected, sometimes. All the time, in the rare circumstances when it happened. The disturbing ‘villains’ and ‘villainesses’ Jim didn’t even have attraction for. But he faked it and faked it well and sometimes even fell into a more genuine feeling with them, all in an attempt to save his own hide. Or his brother’s hide. Or his friends or ex-friends or ex-hook-ups hide. To piss off someone. To save his crew or his mission. Sometimes just for the challenge of it.

Sometimes a body would be easy to read. Occasionally, blessedly, the person being pursued would be kind enough to verbally and explicitly state how they felt, what they wanted, and when. Very few people were that forthcoming, even when they tried to be. Jim tried to be like that sometimes -- forthcoming about his wants -- but even he relied on murky misinterpretable physical and verbal cues for the most part, hoping his potential partners would catch on. Maybe, catch on, at some point, if he was obvious enough. Usually intimately interpreted touching kind of covered it.

Words were a lot harder. Things like ‘I like you’ and ‘you’re hot’ and ‘wanna kiss and go fuck?’ tended to be unpredictable. And Jim wasn’t exactly a linguistics specialist. Much easier to come onto someone with a sweet little neck kiss or a rub on the shoulders and let them make the next move.

Putting it in the other person’s ballpark worked, sometimes. Not all the time. Not with people like Spock. And though there would never be anyone _like_ Spock, his Spock -- not even the counterpart, or for that matter any counterpart in any universe... though there was no one identical there were a lot of people Jim knew who had similar dispositions in this regard.

 

Maybe Jim just didn’t know Spock well enough, intimately enough, to accurately judge how Spock interacted in these sorts of situations. But Jim thought it was a lot more likely he was right, and had caught himself wondering more than once how dominant Uhura must have had to play it to even get Spock to the point he’d acknowledge or make a move back.

Spock was the kind of person you had to tread carefully with. Not because he was fragile -- Spock might be a little broken and ragged in parts, but the guy was probably the most resilient thing Jim could comprehend existing. No, because Spock played it really cool. Subtle. Practically undetectable as far as lesser men were concerned. It takes a lot of nerve to step up to the challenge of bothering to pursue someone like Spock. To take that risk.

Spock letting him touch his wrist -- another person might have held Jim’s hand, or kissed him on the forehead. But not Spock. For Spock non action was an action in itself, letting Jim do anything, a barely noticeable signal that Spock might, just might, be open to more.

A girl like Gaila would have made it easier, and just grabbed Jim’s hair and smashed their lips together and let them tumble into bed and get started already.

Delicate, unsure. Maybe that was Spock. Letting Jim drape the blanket around his shoulders. Letting Jim press his palms against those shoulders even as Spock held himself in an effortless sitting position, unwilling to lie back down like Jim was urging but also still sitting on the bed with his knees against Jim. Still there, still participating.

 

It distinctly frustrated Jim that he couldn’t tell if Spock knew when Jim was flirting. That he couldn’t tell if Spock was flirting back, or being friendly, or being professional, or being just a sweetheart to his hopeless self’s pathetic attempts at creating ever more closeness between them.

People like Spock, in Jim’s experience, liked to be gently flirted with and gently pushed and gently touched, so slow that at each pass they might have extended and plentiful chances to stop all processions and reject anything they found undesirable. But not the kind of people who asked for what they wanted outright. Not easily. Not without lots of coaxing and begging and vulnerability from the other party first. And then, only maybe.

 

It made sense if Spock preferred to not be vulnerable.

 

But Jim knew with someone he valued as absolutely unendingly as Spock, Jim could not exactly afford to be misinterpreted. At least not during bigger gestures, not when friendship was already so perfect between them and yet so tragically horrifically volatile. Not when Spock’s the kind of guy to say he likes a girl then leave her cause he’s considering making little Vulcan babies -- Spock literally has threatened both the Enterprise and Nyota over that kind of unexpected reactivity.

Spock is the kind of guy, Jim thinks, that if you just go straight from playing friendly chess to making out against a door with, might decide afterwards to rush all the way across the galaxy without you and without even saying goodbye.

Spock is not someone you want to feel vulnerable without lots and lots of warning first so that if Spock is going to freak out, it’ll be at least a tiny bit predictable and hopefully something that can be headed off.

Bones knows this. Bones has maybe offhand informed Jim of this multiple times. Jim suspects that his longtime friend has fed Spock similar advice about himself while Jim wasn’t present.

Not that like, Jim thinks he’d abandon the Enterprise and maroon himself on some class M planet if Spock was ever like “I hate you, I will always hate you, you disgust me, I’m going to make some Vulcan babies without you now!” Because firstly, Spock would have gone insane and Jim would stick around and help his phenomenal medical team fix his first officer, and secondly if Spock ever did that earnestly Jim would be completely taken aback that the guy managed to verbalize his feelings so well. And also, Jim would probably be dead at the conclusion of the emotional outburst, because nothing in existence can actually force Spock to let his emotions overcome him except for Jim, solely and only Jim, and if Spock was unleashing hatred specifically then it’s super likely he’d be attempting to kill Jim and be awfully successful. Since, like, no one else who’s got that much sway over his emotions is really likely to be present when that kind of outburst would probably occur.

No need for Bones to prepare Spock for that kind of shit, really. Jim is never going to be put in that kind of position by Spock. And in the impossible event that it does happen, Jim won’t survive it. So.

 

Jim wishes he was actually, really, drunk. This is too real and too scary. He never wants to see Spock mad at him again. He never wants to risk scaring Spock away either. This is too terrifying. He wishes he had more then his own pathetically faked reserves of courage for company right now.

Spock is still looking at him, warm darkness looking straight into him, and Jim is afraid. Jim is afraid Spock can somehow hear his thoughts, like how Spock can read minds through walls when Jim really desperately needs him to. Hopelessly drowning at even the possibility that Spock could be privy to the dreary ideas he’d been pondering in his hesitation.

Jim sucks it up, shakes his head gently to clear his mind -- and finds comfort in Spock’s confusion over the gesture, that it’s possible Spock is staying in his own lane and hasn’t heard a damn thing. Then Jim curls his body clumsily and quickly around Spock like a koala, and plops them both downward, heads on the pillows, and mumbles into Spock’s warm blue cloth covered chest “Just stay okay?”

He tacks on a very quiet “if you want” at the end, belatedly, hoping Spock won’t hear it but knowing entirely that Spock will. Because Jim is, after all, a superior officer, and even though they’re off duty and Spock well knows how to separate professional obligation from private personal preference, Jim wants to remind him that he still has an out. Remind Spock that there is no obligation that could possibly exist, including friendship, that requires Spock to stay if he doesn’t want to. Jim only wants Spock if that’s okay with Spock.

There can be no compromise in that regard.

 

Spock is stiff in his arms, chin carefully on top of Jim’s head and held as if Spock wants to touch Jim and also wants to be detached instead. Jim pulls himself back so he’s not so bodily connected, legs a few inches away, arms off of Spock except where his fingers gently rest against Spock’s blue shirt because Jim can’t bear the shock of everything to nothing all at once. And he doesn’t think Spock probably could either, it would be too much. Completely touching, never touching, either way it would be overwhelming.

“I like you, you know that, right Spock?” Jim almost slurs out, voice light, looking from eyes that demand too much and seem critically aware of how lucid Jim is, down to a collarbone peaking out from blue and black shirts that expects much less of him.

When he peeks up from his lashes, against his better judgement, he sees Spock staring inquisitively at him, baffled but contained. Spock lets out a breath that barely sounds remarkable except for the fact it is markedly louder than a normal breath, and so must be some form of expression.

“Yes, Jim.” One of Spock’s hands settle near Jim’s hips, but not touching it. Spock’s other arm is folded up between the two of them. It’s at once both a barrier between them and an obvious sign that Spock feels comfortable and amicable in this moment if he’s willing to adopt such a leisurely posture. His eyes are soft, but his non-expression indicates that regardless of how self aware he thinks Jim is, he also thinks Jim is being bizarrely irrational.

“And you like me too, right Spock?” Jim feels like he’s back in middle school and riddled in his first outbursts of acne, with the horrid bowl cut Frank took him to get from an abysmal barber, and wishes impossibly that it could be even more like middle school just in the sense this would have been easier to do through digital messaging.

In person it’s worse than asking out Suzy Malone ever had been. Eons worse. Jim can feel his face flushed in red, sure he looks like a tomato. Spock might be an angel that hilariously resembles a devil instead, but surely the guy’s type does not include ‘tomatoes’ or red necked hicks that literally fit that definition. But he doesn’t exactly have to be attracted to Jim right now. That’s not necessary yet.

Although, maybe… if Jim is really lucky… Spock will have some unexpected fondness for the color red, because Vulcan sand was red, and Uhura’s uniform was and is red. And maybe impossibly Spock thinks the blush crawling suddenly from Jim’s shoulders to forehead is endearing somehow.

The hand Spock has between them brushes against Jim’s chest, which has long since abandoned the gold over-shirt and is comfortably swathed in only one thin black undershirt now, and in all respects the movement appears absentminded. But nothing is ever random about Spock’s actions, and Jim takes it as a sign that Spock is affected… in some way. Just because Jim can tell Spock is feeling some kind of thing, does not mean he’s gotten any better at being sure of what those things ever are, exactly.

“Of course, Jim. You know this.” Spock’s hand stills, but it’s still just slightly resting against Jim’s chest. He can feel the heat through the fabric of his shirt. “I believe a requisite of friendship often is, ‘liking’ someone.”

Jim risks a look up again, taking his sweet time to sweep over Spock’s gorgeous neck on the way to his eyes, pondering the likelihood Spock understands the concept of ‘friendzoning’ until he sees the hidden smile there on Spock’s face and thinks it really doesn’t matter.

Fondness. Appreciation. Mirth. Pleasure. Those are things Jim knows Spock is feeling in this instant. And that’s all Jim really wants anyway, in the end. For Spock to feel good.

The whole point of this mostly is just to make the bastard feel good more often, since Jim’s got an inkling suspicion that between Spock’s emotional stuntedness and misplaced feelings of obligation and self deprivation, Spock is highly unlikely to spend precious time actively devoted to improving his own gratification with life. And as a good friend, Jim simply will not allow that to stand.

“I dunno… “ Jim starts deviously, getting brave and trailing his fingers in circles over Spock’s arms and back lightly. “I’m pretty sure you and Bones are friends, but I don’t know if you’d exactly say you two ‘like’ each other…”

Spock looks taken aback, for a moment, and Jim can’t hold back a giggle and a broad smile at it, before Spock reigns in his reaction and smooths his features. Oh, Spock’s ready to play all right. “As you are well aware, as a participator of, masculine humans engage in teasing as a form of bonding, despite it being irrational given the goal. I find I am becoming most adept at it over time, when necessary.” Spock’s about to launch into more, surely to rip Bones a new one even though the man isn’t even here, because stubborn Spock is not about to ever imply he does not consider his wins fair and legitimate proof he’s more right, friendship irrelevant.

Jim cuts him off though, surging forward and nuzzling into Spock’s neck and reveling in how Spock reacts so obviously. First Spock freezes like he’s made of stone and bracing for a blow, then he loosens each part of his body in sequence like he’s okay with reality but perplexed enough about it to not merely let go all at once to the new development. Jim lets out a nice long closed mouth sound of delight at it, feeling Spock still utterly confounded by his emotional tendencies, Spock’s hand between them braced on Jim tightly -- holding him close and fully prepared to shove him away.

Spock lets out another one of those not quite sighs. “So you’re gonna stay and get some rest, right?” Jim considers backtracking and changing tracks, but in the end goes with sporadic as an appropriate approach.

Spock finishes loosening his limbs, so Jim feels secure enough in knowing the answer to let go of Spock, sit up, pull himself out of the covers long enough to throw his shoes and socks across the room and wriggle his pants off, and drop them on the floor. Spock moves to the edge of the bed belatedly, and Jim wonders if Spock had been staring, then Spock removes his own shoes in conservative movements, along with his blue science shirt, then smoothly moves himself back under the covers as he lies beside Jim, who’s already cozied up inside and waiting with his head propped up with one hand.

Jim gives Spock an easy grin and uses his free hand to tuck the blankets over Spock and gently tug Spock a little closer. Finally, Spock’s bundled up satisfactorily too, and positioned where Jim wants him -- inches away and slightly facing Jim, head on a pile of soft white pillows, looking content and still the barest bit puzzled. Jim orders the lights to dim until they’re just illuminated enough to still see each other’s expressions.

“Hey Spock?” Spock could not be more instantaneously exasperated and pleasantly amused then in this moment. Jim flashes him another smile and a knowing look, “You know you love it, irrationality and all,” Jim says lightly. Then, “I uh -- I wanna try something.”

Jim’s voice has gone low, but not seductive, no. He doesn’t want to give away the answer. But he’s quiet in the darkness from habit, and the lack of projection takes the airy quality out of his tone.

 

Spock is regarding him again. Technically Spock still has not agreed to stay the night here. That’s no accident and Jim knows it. The fucker is taking his time enjoying Jim’s bizarre behavior, with the nice open ended option to flee if he judges things getting weirder then he feels like tolerating tonight.

“I -- do you trust me, Spock?” the end comes out different, the only betrayal of Jim’s nerves. He’s trying so hard to push through this on bravado, but it’s hard when Spock’s so close and beautiful and present. When it’s so obvious they’re almost there, and this is going to be either Jim’s first tangible victory or first obvious blunder in his endeavor.

Spock now looks confused again, to the point of wearing it on his face. It’s too quiet for a moment and Jim feels like he’s suffocating in the numbness of it and he’s about to fill it up with noise, but then Spock’s mouth opens. “Why… are you asking? … do you mean as a Captain? Because you are aware that I trust your abilities implicitly and inform you immediately when there is reason to doubt, for your benefit.” Another quiet silence, much much shorter but Jim can still feel it like a presence with them in the room for the beat that it lasts. “As yourself, Jim, of course I trust you. Generally. As far as your character is concerned.” A last beat of quiet, barely a pause. “And while your actions may at times leave some things to be desired, I always trust you have good intent.”

Jim laughs nervously, recklessly hopes Spock doesn’t understand why. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You are welcome.”

There’s still an edge to it -- Spock is still humoring Jim with the full intention of bolting if he doesn’t like whatever answers he finds. Jim can feel it in the way Spock’s body is relaxed into the bed and softly barely touching Jim but with enough body contact to immediately turn those touches hard should there become a need. Its somewhat at odds with his words, Jim thinks. Jim moves himself the slightest bit away from Spock, so he isn’t touching Spock, makes a mental note of how Spock’s hands chase after Jim at such a leisurely pace they don’t appear to be a related event. But soon enough those hands are exactly where they were before, despite the fact Jim’s put a little over half a foot between them, and it’s the only tell Spock is giving Jim.

It’s not very helpful. Jim wanted to let Spock know it was okay to leave if he wanted to. But with Spock holding himself exactly as before, unreadable as before, it’s hard to tell if Jim’s message was even received. Perhaps Spock doesn't think Jim is attempting to act out of consideration, and thinks it was just another irrational insignificant human gesture.

 

Flirting is so hard. Flirting is even harder without some explicit words thrown in to clear things up. And when it’s with Spock. 

Spock. He’s so… important, perfect. Stressful.

“But I meant --” what did Jim mean. What is Jim even going to say to get from this confused lying next to each other Point A, to the definitely in no way could be interpreted as platonic Point B? Jim is so tired of making moves that still fall within platonic. He knows he’s been kind of, well, a coward. He knows if it were anyone else he’d be way past this awkward dance by now.

But this is Spock.

 

Spock is closing his eyes, apparently finally tired of Jim’s shit and decidedly okay with sleeping in Jim’s bed while escaping it. Jim frowns.

He grabs Spock’s meaty upper arms and shakes, just this side of annoyed that Spock is actually being practical and technically following Jim’s advice. Bastard. This is not according to plan. The plan is that Spock does what he _always_ does, and argues Jim for the sheer fun of it, and puts Jim’s emotional ass in his place, and they have a good time.

Spock, expectedly, is startled enough that he flutters open his eyelids. But aside from that, he’s apparently content to lie there dead to the world. Despite his not-movement and half open gaze, somehow Spock is communicating indignation.  

“Are you actually ready to go to sleep or are you just tired of _me_?”

“Do you really wish for me to respond to that?” Spock is pliant against the bed, but his voice is crisp as ever.

“Not really.” Part of Jim, the cowardly part that is almost always ignored but apparently quite resilient when it comes to his feelings around Spock, is screaming for him to concede defeat for the night and shut up and cuddle into Spock while Spock will let him and fall asleep. Another part of him spikes up in one last bout of excitement and urges him to do what he set out to do before he loses all the nerves left to do it.

“Can I --” Jim lets the words die in his throat. His head is a tumult of warring factions all blaring red alerts and making his body sweat like he’s in active combat in the Neutral Zone.

Jim decides to cuddle back into Spock instead, and it’s curious but not entirely unexpected as Spock’s arms weave around him and long fingers come to rest against his sides. All at once, the touch is warm welcome, is singing fear across every atom in his body. 

Jim steels himself emotionally, feeling everything dull and turn off as he braces himself for the outcome, and bravely meets Spock’s eyes. Which are, embarrassingly, still half lidded and warm and amused but uncomprehending as they survey Jim from mere inches away. “I was thinking…”

“You were thinking, Jim?” Spock still sounds crisp and mocking, even though he has no right to be, not when his voice is dimmed to meet Jim’s own tempo, not when he’s in Jim’s arms so soft and unperturbed. This can’t be allowed. Jim feels the blush come back at half strength, heating his cheeks. He has absolutely no doubts that Spock can see it, even in the darkness of the room. They’re too close, Spock can probably _feel_ the warmth of the blush too.

Jim is trying to decide how overt is too overt.

There’s no right way to do this.

He decides he’s at least going to start this by looking at Spock directly. Go bravely or go home. Or whatever.

“Spock. I wanna make you feel good. Can I make you feel good?”

 

So it’s not worded in the best way. It’s early morning and Spock was looking at him so intimately and it’s a fucking miracle Jim hasn’t already had a heart attack from stimuli overload. And how sad is it that just Spock, looking relaxed, is enough to overload Jim’s brain functions, wow.

Spock’s not answering, which is only to be expected after such a weird question, and Jim decides phase two can’t be any less helpful at this point. Phase two apparently being all instinct. Any physical moves he’s ever put on anyone in his life are currently non-existent as memories in his mind, and he has absolutely no idea what to do or what he’d normally do. This is Spock. There is nothing normal about this.

Jim buries his face in Spock’s neck and takes a second to enjoy how soft it is against his hot cheeks, resolutely pretends he’s not embarrassed in the slightest, and moves his left hand to run down Spock’s arm and settle against his limp hand, massaging it as it startles into movement. Spock is still surprisingly easygoing at the moment, and allows their fingers to intertwine with only the barest of tightness in the fingers between Jim’s. Jim moves his other arm against the one Spock has between their chests, so they rest side by side and against each other, and rubs absently against Spock’s shirt, feeling the muscle tense and relax intermittently in response to the touch. 

The grip Spock has on Jim’s own chest is the only giveaway that Spock is startled, fingers gripping Jim’s shirt tight, Spock’s knuckles a heavy press against his lungs. Still, they aren’t pushing. Spock hasn’t made a decision on how he wants to react yet.

It’s not as encouraging as say, pulling Jim against him and kissing until they’re both breathless. But it’s not exactly discouraging either.

Jim lets the hand that was holding Spock’s slip away and onto Spock’s back, massaging, maybe a tad too low to be interpreted as the most innocent of touches. But if you squint, maybe could be construed as the actions a friend might take.

Just a friendly massage. Yup. Jim resists the urge to kiss Spock’s neck innocently, or maybe suck and lick at it like a man dying of thirst, and forces himself to pull his face back again and gauge Spock’s expression and attempt to read it.

Spock is satisfyingly wide eyed now, all traces of drowsiness vanished, lips parted in a perfect bend that Jim wants to surge against and into and devour. When their eyes meet, words seem to catch up to Spock’s brain, but still all that comes out is an almost hesitant, fantastically breathless “Jim?”

Jim wants to always hear his name that way. Unsure, trusting, desiring, curious, and in a ruined almost gasp from Jim’s favorite person in any timeline or universe that could ever and will ever be. Jim wouldn’t mind a recording of that replacing every usage of his name for the rest of his life. Even where it might be awkward. The giddiness Jim feels at Spock sounding so affected and intimately hushed more than makes up for all the awkwardness in the world. Ever.

Jim’s glad he committed to doing this. This is better than cuddling. This is going to get a whole lot better, if Spock keeps sounding so noticeably overwhelmed -- it might not have been a lot on anyone else, barely enough to write home about,  but on Spock the slightest hesitancy and hush of uncontrolled release is a choir of angels reminding Jim that eternal life couldn’t even compete with moments like these.

Jim wants to hear more. Wants Spock to feel so good he feels safe enough to let go like that on a regular basis. Jim is so tired of watching Spock restrain himself and deprive himself and -- Spock probably doesn’t even masturbate, the poor idiot.

 

Jim’s pushing Spock back, his friend still completely giving into his touches, which Jim hopes is a good sign and not like, a sign Spock has mentally vacated.

He’s got Spock on his back, eyes still saucers and mouth still parted like he’d say Jim’s name again but knows that won’t really help clear things up, and then Jim’s backing up and giving Spock space, kneeling beside him and looking down fondly, massaging Spock’s abdomen near his heart with one hand as he uses the other to support himself. “I just… you’re tense a lot, you know?”

Spock’s stunned complacency is immediately gone, and whatever he thinks Jim is trying to do he’s officially decided to weigh in. Spock pushes himself up on his elbows, still basically reclining but poised to pounce or bound off or roll so he can put Jim on his back instead should the desire strike him. “Your statement is vague. What is your point?”

Cut right to the chase why don’t you? Again Jim wonders how the fuck Nyota worked her way so close to Spock. Seems kind of scary, to be honest. He can’t imagine a young fresh cadet marching up and slamming Spock against a desk. Bad thoughts, stop it. “My point is --” What the fuck is his point? ‘I want to kiss you and get you off until you’re moaning could drown out a pleasure house,’ yeah that would go over well.  

Jim laughs, not quite hysterically, and Spock looks seconds shy of finally deciding to pin Jim down just to take control of this unpredictable -- from his perspective -- situation. “My point, Spock,” Jim slips his hand higher up until it’s near Spock’s collarbone, and strokes absentmindedly, noting that Spock’s breathing hitches momentarily when fingers first reach the bare skin. “Is there’s no reason you shouldn’t get to feel good.”

Spock opens his mouth, although the multi-second delay implies to Jim that Spock doesn’t actually have a coherent response pre-lined up.

“And I think --” Jim lets himself finally lean back down, settle half over Spock, who’s still bracing himself up but lets his elbows slide down more until his back is resting against the mattress again, as Jim places his own elbow beside Spock’s shoulder as support and continues playing with Spock’s neck area with his other hand. Jim is leaning with one side of himself on the mattress and the other against Spock’s body toe to torso, one leg slightly between Spock’s legs but not intrusive, although that might be a future goal. “You should let me treat you.”

Spock’s hands shift from the bed to Jim’s shoulders as he speaks, whether to push Jim away or pull him close is still unknown. But the grip is firm. And Spock’s eyes are dangerous.

“We’re friends, right?” Jim says, sounding really unsure for someone who already knows the answer to the question. He’s leaning more on himself then Spock now, worried again that he was crowding him too much.

Spock nods once, looking very awake and not masking his confusion in the slightest -- though it’s still far less of an expression then a human would be wearing. “Yes, Jim. We are friends. And coworkers. You are still making unclear declarations. What is -- “ Spock cuts himself off, reshaping his expression to one Jim is quite familiar with as Spock wears it often when Jim must be scolded for actual idiocy, “ -- You are aware,” Spock rubs at Jim’s shoulders firmly, like one would sooth a familiar pet, “That I am quite content with my life, Jim? I feel perfectly ‘good’ on a daily basis, baring particularly difficult or unpleasant missions, which are of course an expected discomfort given our professional duties serving aboard an exploratory starship.”

Jim wants to kiss every little scrunch of lines that Spock’s face is making -- there aren’t many, but Jim would kiss every millimeter of them until they completely utterly melted away. “I’m aware,” Jim says back, giddy and teasing, and Spock is if possible even more miffed.

He’s not even miffed at Jim’s behavior. As far as Jim can tell what’s pissing Spock off most particularly in this moment is the guy does not understand what’s going on. And it’s so damn cute Jim could die happy just smiling down at Spock right here right now, lost in time and space and that cute face that’s trying to terrify the universe into making some kind of sense for his sleepy half-Vulcan brain.

“I meant,” Jim continues, leaning down and poking Spock’s nose with his own, then poking Spock’s cheek, and Spock’s neck, with it as well, “I was thinking, friends want each other to be happy right?” Jim doesn’t wait for an answer, because the answer will be Spock strangling him if he keeps asking obvious questions in between vague requests. “Friends get satisfaction… when they help each other…” Jim isn’t sure where the fuck he’s going with this. He didn’t really prepare much, honestly. Most of the prep work was just working up the nerve to decide to kiss Spock. Which technically he still hadn’t gotten to. How was he supposed to be the Federation's greatest Captain when he was still too scared to do this?

It’s not like the Federation is as important as Spock. And wow, Jim wonders just when the fuck one emotionally stunted guy became more important to Jim then the entire portion of civilizations he assumed responsibility to protect. That’s too much to process right now. Shutting that train of thought down immediately, for now, to be processed at a later time when bridge work is going at a crawl.

“So I was thinking -- I’d really like to help out more… help you out more…” Jim thinks he needs to use his brain more and stop letting it die every time it leaps for joy and makes him grin impossibly more at Spock’s cute little expression of frustration. That frustration almost makes Jim want to drag this bullshit out and sound even more brain dead. “And I’m going to cut to the chase now, I promise.”

Spock looks so utterly relieved that the tension washes out of his grip on Jim’s shoulders and he goes boneless against the bed.

“I want to get you off, Spock.”

 

Tension comes back with a vengeance, and Jim decides to slip out of Spock’s grasp just in case he decides a Vulcan neck pinch seems appropriate. “You know knocking me out wouldn’t feel very good…” 

Spock has replaced confusion with annoyance, annoyance about what, Jim isn’t sure. In a matter of seconds they’ve shifted and Spock’s sitting almost upright, hands braced on the bed, still ready to lunge in some kind of direction, and Jim’s still inches away, also sitting, curved in on himself like he’s a child about to get chewed out. “I just… I.”

Spock seems to take pity on how awkward Jim is, and how maybe mortified he looks, and his posture subtly changes to something resembling lounging. His face is soft and non-expressive again, but his eyes give away his lingering irritation. “I am perfectly capable of ‘getting off’ myself, Jim.”

Back to crisp intonations and with a scalding aftertaste, apparently. Jim stutters, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I -- I know that. Obviously,” actually he hadn’t known that, and now the ungodly image of Spock laying across his own bed lavishly moving his fingers up and down on a cock flushed with green the same color as his cheeks, moaning little perfect tiny barely there gasps into the privacy of his cabin is absolutely swarming over any other thoughts Jim had and damn, he really can’t handle that kind of depraved concept right now. Spock, god. Pleasuring himself. Wow. “I just… um.” Focus. Jim sits up straighter, moves back to massaging one of Spock’s hands, it usually seems to chill Spock the fuck out when he’s letting Jim actually do it. Which, he is letting Jim do it right now, so good. “I just… I’d really enjoy doing it for you.”

And there are no crickets. There’s not a goddamn sound in this room. Not even the buzzing of silence. Spock had held his breath, huh.

Jim leans forward, crowding Spock’s face, searching for a reaction that’s readable, not touching Spock except on that perfect hand that’s tentatively twitching against his with unsure movements. He lets his voice pitch away from this self conscious babble and toward the kind of sure confidence he knows comes naturally for him when it comes to this. “I want to make you feel good, Spock. It would make me feel _so good_ to please you…”

Irritation is gone, Spock’s pupils are so dilated Jim can’t make out the brown anymore, expression open and Jim isn’t sure what Spock’s feeling but it seems positive. Jim waits.

It’s important.

“What you are proposing is not a platonic gesture, Jim.” Spock speaks quietly, unreadable but not sharp, soft like the darkness around them. The fact he tacks on Jim’s name at the end, as if he’s pointing out a fact Jim doesn’t know, and trying to emphasize that he’s just being helpful, is incredibly endearing.

“I… know.” Now Spock is making it Jim’s turn, watching him expectantly and unblinkingly, expecting more. Expecting the answer to this riddle that’s been playing out, finally. “I like you. Being your friend is -- awesome. Your Captain? Awesome. And I get that this is kind of overstepping what’s normal for us, but”

“Jim.” Spock has one hand on Jim’s shoulder and he’s squeezing in what is normally his attempt at a supportive gesture. It feels more intimate in this bed in the dimness with Spock’s knees touching his. “If you are proposing -- friends who engage in sexual behavior, statistically those arrangements most often end in displeasure for one or both parties. In the long term it is not a means to achieve any lasting pleasure. It is in fact quite risky in practice for the friendship involved.”

There’s odd little flutters in Jim’s chest, maybe because it’s just so sweet that Spock is attempting to correct something he finds faulty with Jim’s idea, rather than being offended or opposed to the specific implications of it. Of course Spock would be considerate and first work to ensure everything they have between them is protected and preserved before anything different is introduced. Practical. Jim laughs again, gentle. Laughs more when Spock shows the barest ticks of confusion for a few short seconds before filing that emotion away and returning to neutrality.

“Spock… you read studies?” Spock is about to open his mouth, but either way Jim knows the answer is ‘I know what I’m talking about’. “Spock… do you know the reason most friends who get intimate end up fucking their friendships up?”

He doesn’t expect an answer, but he does momentarily smile at Spock’s cute little wince. “Look,” Jim pulls Spock’s held hand toward him, still massaging and holding it, trying to center Spock in on the two of them and not the million of stimuli bombarding his thoughts. “I know a little about this kind of stuff, okay? I’ve got my fair share of experience.”

Spock is silent and considerately waiting for Jim’s rationale for why his idea is not completely reckless and ill conceived. “Usually, when two friends try the whole hook up thing, one friend is attracted to the other, but the feeling isn’t mutual. So. One friend is enjoying pleasing the other, but tends to not get pleased. The other friend is just taking what attention they can get until someone they actually like comes along, and then they dump their friend and go for the new person.”

Spock has his mouth in that cute little open position like he’d comment if only there was something satisfactorily logical to say.

“Problem is almost always, one person wasn’t attracted, one person didn’t really like the other, so that person gets selfish and ruins the friendship on both counts. Another problem, sometimes, is the friend who is attracted goes into it thinking it’s mutual when it’s not, and the whole feeling of I-got-lied-to kind of fucks with the trust that friendship had, you know?”

It all feels incredibly casual right now, this. This is territory Jim and Spock are both used to, talking about random things and debating and explaining and sharing opinions. This is what Jim loves. This simple feeling of belonging, as if they always fit together even when they don’t really match up like pieces. More like two halves that sum to something greater than a whole.

“And you have established we like each other.”

“Yes.” Jim is nodding happily.

“And you have established… I trust you.” A nod. “I suppose you expect me to ask if you trust me. But it is understood already you trust me. I am already aware of your faith in me both personally and professionally.”

“Mmm.” Another pleased nod from Jim.

“You did not establish attraction.”

“Are you attracted to me, Spock?” Jim asks, voice easy and dripping confidence like he knows the answer, even though a big panicky part of him has just dropped from heaven and crashed warp speed into the ocean at the sudden realization things just we got personal again instead of the comforting theoretical.

Spock is frozen, and Jim’s just the tiniest bit of freaked that Spock isn’t answering immediately. But a more rational part of Jim knows that Spock probably didn’t expect to have to recognize or evaluate any emotions he wasn’t already comfortably familiar with. After all, the previous questions had been quite basic, all things they both have long known the answers to. This was terrifyingly new. Jim was terrified.

“Yes.”

Jim breathed out, not realizing he’d been frozen too. He could feel a smile splitting across his face uncontrollably. Relief washed like adrenaline through him, the rest of his life would be easy. It was just that tiny question getting in the way. The answer was positive. Jim could do this. Give Spock more and more and more until the happiness was a solid thing, that was the only requirement missing. Spock would catch on one day.

“Well. I --”

“You are attracted to me, I assume, or else this entire conversation is --”

“Yeah, Spock. I have eyes, of course I’m attracted to you.”

“Eyes are not a requirement for attraction nor is aesthetic appreciation necessarily equal to --”

“Nearly anyone would be attracted to you, if they have brains, or don’t. And you didn’t argue them to death.” He raises an eyebrow at Spock. “I know what attraction feels like. I feel it.”

Spock is having a hell of a time sorting through flawed human syntax.

 

Jim settles closer, arms wrapping around Spock loosely and rubbing into his back again, one hand daringly slipping onto bare skin near the bottom of the shirt and touching underneath it. Spock is either too caught up in their conversation to care or too comfortable with Jim touching him to bother acknowledging it.

“So,” Jim begins to conclude, “We wouldn’t be jeopardizing our friendship. Nothing gets ruined or risked or anything annoying like that. We like each other, we’re attracted to each other, we trust each other. If you want to feel good and I want to make you feel good, well, no harm there. If that’s what we want.”

Spock is leaning into him, a good sign at least that their friendship and closeness is currently intact and not in jeopardy. His lips are so close Jim can feel the words as they leave his lips, the sound almost hoarse and very appealing as far as Jim is concerned. “...Perhaps we should establish procedures and rules.”

Jim chuckles. It’s not BDSM… not anytime soon anyway, but it’s so contradictory innocent in comparison and so perfectly a Spock thing to do. “That’s easy.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, the rest of his expression gentle and unguarded, and Jim is bubbling with warmth over the fact Spock is on track to agree with this arrangement. Which is a lot more then Jim expected once he started impulsively acting tonight.

“It’s all about what feels good, okay? If it feels good for both of us, it’s okay. If it doesn’t, we stop. If there’s something we don’t want to do specifically, or some part we don’t want touched or something, we mention it. Obviously, we don’t do shit while on duty, and we don’t --”

“We would only engage in sexual conduct in private.”

“Yeah. And, um, don’t feel like we need to reciprocate, either.” Jim tacks on.

Spock’s raising his eyebrow again, “It is relatively common to work to achieve mutual satisfaction --”

“I know. Whatever. Just. I mean. If you don’t feel like getting me off, I don’t want or expect you to. Understand? And um… if you ever felt like making me feel good, don’t necessarily expect that I feel up to doing the same. I mean, I probably would feel up for it, but don’t --”

“I understand, Jim. I would not wish to coerce you even implicitly to do something you did not necessarily desire to do.” Spock is such a fucking sweetheart Jim could die right here, Spock in his arms, being all damn considerate as they talk about theoretically fucking each other. This is great. This is sublime.

“Right. Same. I wouldn’t want to do that to you either. So yeah. Just, we give each other pleasure if we feel like we’d enjoy giving it, and if the other one of us wants to… get it.” His cheeks are probably red again, damn him. How does a man who’s had rather phenomenal threesomes end up blushing about offering to make his good friend orgasm, really.

Spock is utterly soft in his arms, so Jim lets them both slide effortlessly down until they’re lying again, heads on the pillows, wrapped up in each other and collapsed. Apparently talking about feelings wears both of them into puddles of mush at similar rates. When it’s not stringing them taut anyway.

 

They’re looking at each other, and this is heaven, and Spock’s eyes are still at full mast but they’ve got that contented quality that makes them like a warm fire instead of a cornea burning sun. And everything is okay. “So, um.”

Jim lets the hand under Spock’s shirt, on Spock’s back, move a little more provocatively, and skim the top of his pants absentmindedly. He can feel Spock’s body react and that’s definitely arousal bubbling up.

“Do you have anything you don’t like? Or um, will you ask when you want to be… to feel good?”

Spock’s non-expression is twinkling with amusement, his little lip twitch gives him away. “‘Feel good’ is the euphemism you wish to go with? I will tell you to stop if I am not enjoying your ministrations. Or if,” Spock almost, almost gasps as Jim gropes that glorious perfect ass. “You move to do anything I dislike -- I will inform you of which action or actions to cease.” Another almost gasp as Spock tries to take in a measured breath but it gets sucked in too fast.

Jim has died and gone to a place far better than heaven. Spock’s eyelashes are fluttering and it’s just the tiniest slip of control and it’s magnificent.

“What -- about you, Jim? Will you inform me when receiving pleasure is desired on your part?”

Jim loves the almost gasps, but the crispness that Spock is so valiantly maintaining is equal parts precious and aggravating and Jim wants to take him apart piece by piece until Spock’s composure is well beyond being able to sound so articulate. Jim lets both his hands slide down Spock’s pants, pushing the fabric down and making access all the easier, smoothing his hands across that perfectly supple skin and squeezing every so often, fingers fluttering back up to Spock’s lower back on occasion just for variety, just to set Spock off more at the unpredictability of it all so he can’t compensate to hold his reactions as well. “Mmmm. I mean, usually, I’m all for getting pleasured. Like any day you name it. But --”

Jim lets one of his hands slide up Spock’s side because for some reason touching the place by his heart elicits the prettiest little pushes of noise from Spock, and the fluttering there is equal parts intriguing and flattering.

“Tonight I don’t want you to do stuff to me,” Spock looks at him questioningly, and it’s not quite come-apart yet but Jim sees in those brown eyes that coming apart is actually something achievable, and that’s beyond exciting. “I want to make you feel good, Spock,” he almost growls out his name, and it makes both of them shudder the slightest bit. “That’s what I want. That’s what’ll make me feel good, right now.”

Spock nearly bites his lip, and Jim catches the sight and has the sudden urge to push him into the bed and pound into him senselessly until Spock bites those lips green trying to keep his reactions of pleasure in check, and failing, oh god, failing just sometimes just the right amount for Spock to still be okay with it cause they’re in private and no one else would know, so beautifully. “But --”

“If you want it too,” Jim states, another out for Spock if he wants it, to say stop just in case for some reason Spock is a liar and won’t actually just say ‘no’. Jim lets his hands slow to a stop on that perfect excited skin.

“Yes.” Spock seems to be steadying himself back into some semblance of equilibrium while Jim’s given him a reprieve. “But. We should finish establishing the guidelines first.”

Jim pulls himself an inch or two away, smile easy and eyes relaxed, perfectly content to agree with that decision. “What else was there to decide again?”

He knows Spock is grateful for the mental escape from sensation, and Spock settles himself into an equally unhurried pause as they finish the preliminary paperwork so to speak. “Will you explicitly ask when you wish to receive pleasure? Or is it solely the duty of the one giving pleasure to state that they are particularly willing to do so? Do you have anything you wish me to not do to you when you receive pleasure?  How often will we be engaging in sexual activity with each other? I presume you intend for this to be on a somewhat regular basis --”

“I do hope so.”

“Then we need to establish how often and when. Also, while you have sufficiently convinced me that we are capable of approaching this with only mutual gain in mind, what if another factor is introduced? What should we do should one or both of us desire to engage with a different sexual partner?”

Spock talks like he’s reading out of a meticulously crafted list, each question given its own measured time and weight, before a pause and the next question is raised, until he finally seems to draw it all to a close. Jim isn’t sure he even remembers all the questions, Spock was so visually enthralling he kind of let his mind wander. Plus, he has a hand on Spock’s ass. He never actually thought that would happen in his life. Especially not so immediately. It’s kind of really awesome.

“Okay. Ah.” Spock is looking at him pointedly and it’s all supernova again, less of that campfire cozy. “Well, um. Assume I want it unless I tell you I don’t, like today. Although I’ll probably enthusiastically tell you I wouldn’t mind being touched most days, so it’s not like it’ll be hard to interpret. And, as far as what you can do? Whatever you want ... I’ll let you know if there’s anything particular though, in case I get injured or something.

As far as another person. Um. Well, if either of us decide we want to um, pursue anyone, we just talk to each other about it. It’s all about communication. And for that matter, if either one of us wants to not do this we just have to say so. I want to do this because it feels good, and it’ll feel good for both of us. And so we just gotta talk and make sure that’s what’s happening.”

Spock gives a nod but is still burning holes through Jim.

“I mean. It’s not like I’ve hooked up with anyone since this mission started for the most part anyway, besides you know, life saving seduction type stuff -- which we might as well not count as anything, either one of us doing it. Cause that’s kind of par for the course in our lives -- As for like other stuff... Obviously I wouldn’t put a crewmember in that kind of situ… you’re different, obviously, because I’m barely the superior officer as far as you’re concerned --” Jim knows he’s getting off topic. Spock’s still intent, but his lips bend in minute amusement. “ -- plus this is a friend thing, and you know how to handle intimate relationships with senior office-- uh.” Spock mercifully nods again so Jim can move the fuck on.

“And you -- I don’t think you’ve really been up to much either, sexually, since uh, your breakup. Right.”

Another curt head tilt to imply assent, but Spock’s still not relenting as far as silent looks go. He looks...  expectant, maybe?

“What?”

“What is your opinion on how often we should engage in sexual activity? You did not answer.”

“Oh um. Well, however often sounds good to you.”

“Once a month would be --”

“Once a month! No. Nahh nah neh!” Jim bleats out, “Bad idea. It should be like… like a few times a week.”

“A few times a week is quite often.”

“What’s wrong with getting more orgasms, that’s just more of a good thing!”

“You do realize a single session could consist of multiple orgasms, Jim --”

“I -- of course I know that. I mean. Okay, no, I’m right, Spock, Listen,” Jim is sometimes baffled by Spock’s lack of reasoning skills, considering the guy prides himself on that particular talent, “If we only hook up once a month, then a mission is bound to get in the way. We get a lot of missions that throw us for a loop and throw the whole schedule off! If we do it bi-weekly, that’s still a problem, because we never really know which missions are going to go sideways. If we do it once a week, that’s better, marginally. But again, we can’t really predict a specific day of the week nothing is going to go wrong, that Sulu isn’t going to end up drunkenly threatening the ensigns with a sword when we’d rather be sleeping or uh, groping each other. So if we plan for a few days a week, hopefully at least one of those days we’ll actually be free to do something and we’ll both be in the mood. And at the least, hopefully a few days a week, a few weeks out of the month, we’ll get some quality time in.”

“We always get quality time in, Jim.”

“I mean sexual quality time.”

“So the multiple times a week is also to account for the fact we often have to reschedule chess?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking either the same nights we play chess or alternating nights. Maybe both sometimes, depending on what we’re up for.”

“That is reasonable.”

Jim beams at the compliment. “So I’m right.”

Spock is so close to rolling his eyes, Jim could cry, but he’s too busy being overjoyed.

“I was also thinking… I wouldn’t mind if the nights we… have fun, we also spend the night? Um, just stayed the night in whatever room we’re in. After all, cuddling is, um, pleasant. Pleasing.”

Spock’s pity is the final nail in the coffin that Jim’s connecting trail, that united all the bullshit convincing he did tonight, can officially be let go. Onto new worlds of flimsy reasoning that only Jim would dare risk attempting around a man like Spock.

“I like cuddling. Sue me,” Jim mutters the end bit, and Spock is suitably baffled as to why he’d say that particular phrase anyway. “I might not always want you to get me off. But um, consider me fully down for cuddling. Whenever.” Jim feels completely manly right now, thank you, Spock is cradled in his arms and his appraising looks of Jim are not making him feel awkward in the slightest. “If you ever feel like pleasing me, that’s what I’m down for regardless of whatever else you wanna do.”

Black hair nudges into the space between Jim’s jaw and shoulder and Jim realizes Spock is nuzzling him. He could die, right now. He’s dead. Spock is the most incredible -- person, thing, place, experience, everything -- he actually can’t handle it at all. Spock pulls back enough to look through his lashes sideways at Jim, and right next to his ear Jim hears, “It would please me to do so. We may incorporate cuddling and mutual sleep after the giving of sexual pleasure.”

Jim shivers and can’t believe he’s still a body and not a dispersed cloud of atoms blown apart.

Spock’s lips are still right next to his ear, touching the curve of it, actually. “I would also be amenable to cuddling after chess, on nights where there is no pressing need for me to finish work elsewhere or attend to personal matters. Also, we may vary retiring to your room and mine, so that neither of us are less accommodated overall by the arrangement.”

That voice is molten sin and Jim is in Hell and the Devil is a perfect glorious half-Vulcan and Jim cannot imagine anywhere better or worse to be in this moment, or any moment. Hell isn’t even real as far as Jim is concerned, but damn does he feel tortured cause here Spock is, in his arms, voice sultrier than Jim when he’s _trying_ to be, and all Spock is doing is talking about the formal components of this _thing_ and how he’s ‘amenable’ to them cuddling almost every night which is, absolutely, way beyond Jim’s wildest expectations and --

Spock is so perfect. This is exactly why Jim had to brave it and try to make this happen. Cause he comes in just wanting to fucking make sure Spock’s getting the fair share of orgasms he deserves -- and maybe selfishly witness the glory that is Spock undone in pleasure while he’s at it -- and Spock takes it all with grace and willingness and then goes above and beyond the expectation of just enjoying a good time, by offering to hold mushy sappy Jim through the night well into the foreseeable future.

It’s daunting how considerately sweet Spock can be at times.

 

Jim nudges Spock backward, pushing his thigh more intimately between Spock’s, taking note of the beginnings of hardness there, smoothing a hand down Spock’s side because Spock seems to love it when fingers ghost over the place his heart rests. Sets gentle kisses onto Spock’s neck, under those lovely pointed ears, and Spock shivers and tilts his head invitingly, exposing that beautiful expanse further. Jim wants to mark it up and down, make it obvious to the whole world what Jim gets to do, what Spock gets to feel.

He weaves the fingers of his other hand between Spock’s and squeezes and that also makes Spock almost-shudder, Jim’s sure he’s got a hand kink. Wonders what other kinks Spock has.

Dances his hand across Spock's, noting how those long fingers tense and loosen like pulses, holding like his life’s at stake, letting go like it’s all too much. How Spock’s lips fall open when Jim pulls up on his fingers, and Jim gets an idea. He brings Spock’s hand up to his lips, and halts the shower of kisses to take Spock’s index finger into his mouth to suck.

That does it, a real gasp leaves Spock followed by the beginnings of a moan until it’s clamped down on, Spock biting those pretty lips green.

Jim plays around for a minute, pretending he’s sucking on something else, going up and down and pulling in another finger and keeping that up for a torturous minute where Spock is arching his back and his cock’s swelling up against Jim’s leg and no way Spock doesn’t know where this is going. Then he pulls back and licks at the tips lightly, knowing he’s being a jerk. Spock looks at him, eyes half open, irritated, and Jim can’t help grinning around the fingers as he sucks them into his mouth one more time to tease Spock with the sight.

He pulls the hand away, back to Spock’s side, moves his fingers against Spock’s in slow soothing motions. But the fingers are still twitching between tight and relaxed and Spock’s not exactly calmed down by it. Jim pushes forward again, breaking eye contact, kissing and sucking against a spot just below Spock’s jaw and ear.

Jim hears another bit off moan, and Spock’s hands are clutching at Jim’s back as if he’s afraid Jim will slip away, as if he’s trying to fuse them together if he could just hold Jim tight enough against him. The friction between them as Spock grinds them together makes Jim groan against the bruises blossoming up against his lips.

“Spock.” Jim moves the hand stroking over Spock’s heart to just above the front hem of black pants, fingers lightly unbuttoning and drifting low and over Spock’s hardness between them before up again, pulls down the zipper. “Can I touch you here?

Spock lets out an almost huff, it would be if he weren’t holding his body so rigid. “Jim, you’re obviously capable of --”

“ _May_ I play with your cock?”

Jim hears a choke. Sees a nod, feels like being a jerk and just keeps his hand tentatively on the outside of Spock’s pants, light unmoving pressure. Finally he hears, “Yes.”

Jim moves down immediately, kissing and sucking down Spock’s neck and collarbone and shoulder, one hand squeezing Spock’s and pushing himself up with it -- Spock can handle the weight there. Lifts his other leg so he’s happily nestled between Spock’s thighs and spreading them apart with his own. Other hand gently, oh so gently, sliding to Spock’s side and nudging his pants and underwear down inch by inch until they’re bunched just below Spock’s ass, and his cock is on display now, all flushed and swollen and bouncing up to curve up toward his stomach now that it’s no longer confined.

Spock squirms and it’s enough to notice, obviously displeased that he’s still wearing clothes at all, and Spock takes the initiative of momentarily bending up and yanking off his shirt and reaching across Jim and pulling at the shirt on him too, frustrated. Jim moves a hand from the fabric of the pants and bats Spock’s desperate hands away, looking at him steadily until Spock settles and lets his hands fall on either side of himself, one hand snaking back over to the one Jim’s not using and holding it again, tightly.

Jim takes his time pulling off his own shirt, a thrill at the idea Spock’s enjoying the show, hungry eyes boring into him as Jim throws the shirt to the side and lets Spock just look for a moment. Spock’s left hand, the one not holding onto Jim’s for dear life, is fisting up and loosening like Spock’s trying to regulate himself, still. That just won’t do.

Jim picks the hand up and puts it on his chest, tells Spock “You can touch me.”

And like a wildfire Spock’s hand goes across his body like it’s trying to memorize it, bruise it, brand it.

Feather light and hard like an immovable object up across Jim’s chest and dipping down his abdomen and ghosting over Jim’s own arousal curiously and definitively, like he’s testing if Jim would prefer to be pleased after all -- after meeting Jim’s gaze, he acquiesces and slides his fingers back up, around Jim’s shoulders, pushing into Jim’s shoulder blades, stroking across his neck where the hairline fades.

Jim kisses down Spock’s chest, nipping before he can help himself, feeling Spock’s fingers drag into his hair and pull. Jim lets himself separate from Spock’s perfect expanse and glances up at him, “Do you like it soft or a little painful?”

Spock has that pretty half open look, like he’s falling apart and pretending that his expression is just neutral even though it’s tinged in the lightest blush, lips just beginning to swell from the restraint, open like they’ve always been that smoothly unchecked. His eyes are bright and lips shift momentarily, just long enough to know Spock considered scolding him for poor wording. “I enjoy --” Jim’s petting at the cock between them, feather light touches and Spock pretends he wasn’t about to moan at the shock of it “-- both. I will --” Spock pretends he’s not biting his lips, but the way he closes his mouth into a tight line gives away the intent, “inform you if I dislike something.” Spock lets his lips fall open again, eyelid fluttering like he wants to close them against the sensations but he’s trying to prove something by keeping his gaze on Jim, even as Jim starts squeezing around Spock, pulling around it now, a little harsh, dry, wondering how rough is going to be too rough, going back to minimal contact and light strokes absentmindedly.

“Good. Make sure you let me know. I want this to be so good for you.” Jim goes back down, lips seizing around a nipple and kissing delicately before sucking it in tightly, nibbling a little bit the second Spock eases under him, ecstatic as Spock bucks below him, hands tightening in his hair just shy of painful.

He keeps jerking Spock off, barely, wants Spock squirming and gasping below him to drag out as long as possible, tries to memorize every little reaction as it happens. Jim slides his other hand out from Spocks’ -- and Spock holds on reluctantly until Jim brushes his fingers against Spock’s side and Spock lets go like he’s been burned, and wraps his hand around Jim’s back and pulls them so close together Jim can’t move against Spock’s hard on anymore. They’re still, except for Spock’s little abortive thrusts below him, and Jim’s lips and hand working Spock’s nipples, probably biting a little too much, focusing too intent, and Spock’s keening impatiently even though he’s the one holding them mostly immobile.

Jim switches sides and lets his mouth trail ruthlessly over the nub he’d been fiddling between his fingers, hand slipping down to pet against Spock’s quickened heartbeat, and within seconds Spock is hauling Jim’s face up until they’re breathing each other's air, lips touching, still except for the hands rushing up and down each other’s sides and back, pressed together and Jim’s overwhelmed by the heat of it all. He can’t take anymore, he bites down into Spock’s perfect lips, and Spock surges up to meet him and they’re kissing and it's quiet and perfect and harsh before falling into a gentle lull in pace with their hands as their whole bodies come to slow. A moment of calm to regroup, before they’re both about to fall off the edge again.

 

If Jim never worked up the nerve to do this, they’d still be dancing around each other, forever a at least a foot apart, always together but never quite.

 

The thought that all of this could be so fragile, so avoidable, is far beyond the realm of horror.

Jim kisses into Spock’s mouth like he’ll never get the chance again, like it’s goodbye and it has to last an eternity. Awed by Spock’s desperate clawing in his hair, pulling violently and pressing Jim closer like he’s trying to make them into one body.

It’s terribly slow and deep and Spock’s scraping into Jim’s back with warm harsh fingertips trying to meld them into a single entity, trying to urge Jim on even as he melts into submission at the pace Jim sets.

The world is paused, and Jim lets them breathe, lips still brushing, and the air that rushes into the small space between their bodies is at once relieving and awful. They stay like that for too many moments and Spock’s hands squeeze and lock into place like he’s tolerating the distance but no force in this world could make him allow it to increase further.

Jim brings the hand that was stuck between them up, makes it slick with his spit, and moves it back down to start tugging up and down Spock earnestly, flicking at the head and pushing back down tight and just fast enough to stir Spock on, and pushes Spock’s hips down with his other hand so the bucking isn’t so severe. And Spock’s hands unpause and drag up and down Jim’s back and skull like they’re scrambling for purchase but nothing is good enough, and Jim’s licking into Spock’s mouth again in between stealing looks down at Spock's beautiful flushed leaking cock, and it’s like this is all they were ever meant to do.

Jim holds himself back, keeps his own instincts from driving him against Spock, savoring the little moans and begs that bleed out whenever their lips disconnect, tilts his head so he can suck into the dip of Spock’s neck again, squeezes extra tight in reward whenever Spock lets loose a tremor instead of holding back.

“Please,” Spock is pushing out, between plush overused lips and restrained reactions, eyes falling helplessly shut, over and over, Spock struggling to push them open and watch and failing somewhat under the onslaught. “Jim. Jim.”

Jim kisses down to one shoulder, worships it with his own swollen lips and sounds of content, makes his way across to the other, letting the hand working on Spock keep increasing in intensity, he knows he’s being almost brutal now, but Spock’s so into it, bucking so desperately Jim’s getting friction against his own hardness even though that’s not the point right now, even though he’s doing his best to keep Spock’s body pinned to the bed.

It’s so good.

 

“Jim,” Spock’s voice is breaking, just little lilts that go too high and Jim’s in love, Jim’s been in love, there’s no word for how Spock makes him feel, nothing accurate exists. “Jim -- please don’t --” Jim pauses instantly, head jerking up enough to make eye contact, ready to interpret. Spock seems grateful for the reprieve, chest heaving and hands loosening their grasp in momentary relief, “please refrain from leaving marks anywhere that is not normally covered by my uniform.”

“Oh.” Oops. Jim nuzzles his cheek against the places he already knows are bruising, “Um.”

Spock’s gathered enough strength to fully open his eyelids and stare, though his hands are still lifelines anchoring into Jim’s hair like he’s liable to disappear at any moment and sheer force of will and physical strength could prevent it.

“I may have already given you a hickey um,” Jim pokes his nose into where Spock’s neck merges with shoulder, “here.” He kisses at it apologetically. Spock looks vaguely annoyed, but his eyes flutter to half mast, conceding that it’s not something that matters now. “I won’t leave any more in visible spots, okay? This one might be covered by your undershirt…”

Spock is pulling Jim in to kiss him on the lips again, so relentless Jim couldn’t have done anything but comply, though there’s nothing he’d rather do then give Spock whatever he wants, right now. It’s harsh and Spock’s biting his lip hard enough to leave marks -- and Jim suspects it’s a quiet revenge for the mark, probably also a test to see if Jim will impose similar rules -- then shoving into Jim like he belongs there.

Jim melts into it, lets Spock rake his hands desperately through Jim’s hair, sweetly sharp and possessive and Jim doesn’t even remember what it’s supposed to feel like when Spock’s not doing that, cradling his head like this, possessing Jim like this.

Jim flicks at the top of the cock squeezed in his palm, desperate to make Spock fly apart already. Spock’s fingers are fluttering feather light across his temple and neck like they’re being burned but don’t care at all, pulling and pressing with unnecessary force every intermittent moment, hugging Jim to him and letting his own mouth fall slack for Jim, and Spock losing his ability to modulate his actions his enough to make Jim feel like he needs to be fucking into Spock eons ago.

Spock shudders in his arms and Jim feels warm sticky wetness on their stomachs, on his hand, and Spock’s hips stutter out a few more times, and his grip on Jim stuns to a stop again, pressing them together into a mass of warmth, overwhelmed. Jim lets their lips separate since Spock is unresponsive, takes in his open expression, his blown out pupils. Jim’s smiling into Spock’s skin, feels Spock slowly coming back to himself, petting Jim’s head gently -- stark contrast from the earlier desperation -- still holding them together, unraveled and in a heap across the mattress, Jim draped against him.

“You’re so great, Spock.” Jim murmurs against Spock’s flushed cheeks, still taking in every tiny remnant of expression in Spock’s afterglow. The angel lets his eyebrows almost raise a bit at Jim before his face falls back into perfectly pleased exhaustion. “I ” _love you, so much, so fucking much, I love you I love you I love you Spock_ , “am so happy.”

Spock lets himself smile, small, closed mouth. It’s beautiful.

Jim lets them be like this until Spock feels like he’s almost back to some kind of attempt at composure, then slides his whole body down until he’s nestled between Spock’s legs and starts lapping up the mess, doubling down his grip on Spock’s hips when they try to jerk from the sudden attention.

When Jim looks up to take in Spock’s reaction, he sees how wide and open Spock looks, notices how the hands that had been in Jim’s hair are now strangling the sheets on either side of Spock, and Jim lets one of his hands go to one of Spock’s and hold him. It serves to relax Spock infinitesimally, enough that his head falls back to the pillows again, then Spock, with much apparent effort, says out in a voice that’s just shy of fading off “Jim.” Spock’s still collecting himself, his free hand flying to Jim’s head and holding on dangerously, ready to control Jim into whatever position is most appealing. At the moment, Spock is keeping Jim from making too much direct contact with his more oversensitive flesh. “Jim I’m ov -- over stimulated. Give me time to -- gather myself.” Spock lets out a rather unrestrained gasp when his eyes look down and see Jim licking up the mess from his navel. “Please.”

Jim indulges Spock, and cleans up the rest of the mess more practically, wiping most of the rest off himself and Spock with the blanket, then sliding up and pressing his mouth to Spock’s so he gets to taste himself.

Spock’s hands are still grasping for purchase over Jim’s skull and neck and back and it’s terribly endearing.

They break apart, and Spock looks positively debauched and ready to sleep. But his eyes are bright and active, scanning over Jim and down to his own evidence of arousal, silently asking if Jim is sure he doesn’t want Spock to return the favor.

Jim shakes his head, smoothing his hand over Spock’s stomach before rolling Spock’s accommodating body to face away from Jim, and slotting up behind him. He wraps his arms around Spock and holds him, stroking Spock’s abdomen, occasionally smoothing over Spock’s steadying heartbeat. Spock holds Jim’s hands and forearms in his own embrace, and Jim buries his head against Spock’s shoulder blades.

“Are you sure --”

“Yes, I’m sure Spock.”

“But --”

“Not tonight. I told you. I wanted to make you feel good.”

“But I --”

“Spock.” Spock stops, though he’s still squirming his hips just enough that it’s on purpose, obviously trying to point out to Jim how aroused his body still is. “Making you feel good makes me feel good.”

“Yes, b--”

Jim slips one of his hands down and lets it softly stroke Spock’s length again. Spock immediately stops moving his hips, backing into Jim instead like he thinks that could possibly lessen the grip Jim’s got on him.

“I am still overwhe--”

“If you want to please me so much, this is what I want. I want you to come again, Spock. I want to see you like this.” Spock is pressing back into him and it’s so similar to how Spock held them together earlier. He’s molten against Jim, hot and willing and letting Jim pet him delicately, letting Jim grip onto the tip of his cock and flick at it unrelentingly. He wants to fucking train Spock, make him come undone from barely anything. So that when Jim finally gets around to deep throating Spock he doesn’t have a fucking chance of composure, not even a little.

Spock shudders in a breath, tilts his head into the pillow, exposing his neck so Jim can kiss into it again -- when he does Spock melts into it, letting out little satisfied moans at the contact.

“Is this okay, Spock?”

Spock lets out a little ‘mm’ between obvious reactions to the slow insistent touches. “Yes, Jim. I want you to feel good,” A little sigh, and Spock’s hands are the only thing tensed, tightening around Jim’s forearm like Spock is trying to keep himself from reacting to the sensations coming too fast, too unrelenting, too soon after being so overwhelmed. “Jim.”

The word is like a prayer.

Spock is the only person that says his name like that.

“You feel good too, right?” Yeah, Spock’s firming back up in his grip, pliant in his arms, but it never hurts to ask. He kisses against Spock’s ear.

“Yes.” Spock slips out an actual moan, his head falls back, and he pulls his lower lip inside his mouth to bite down on it. “Yes.”

He’s holding the hand Jim has on his stomach, the other slipping away from Jim’s forearm and reaching blindly toward Jim’s face again, thoughtless, all reactions and unfiltered response and Jim doesn’t have to come at all for this to easily win as the most erotic night of his life.

This is exactly what Jim wanted. Spock panting and keening and too tired to control himself, too tired to be worried about how it might appear, too comfortable to care, around Jim. It’s perfect. Spock tiredly heaving in his arms, chest rising and falling against his hold, Spock’s body tangible and willing and falling undone.

He keeps flicking and squeezing, too rough, too dry with so much friction. He quickly removes his hand and adds more spit before moving it across that cock again, fast and slick and still focusing on the top and refusing to relent. And Spock settles between pushing back into Jim and melting into the touch, still reaching back toward Jim’s shoulder and face unthinkingly, and they lie like that, against each other, for ages, little urgent repetitive frantic movements, heavy against each other, until finally Spock comes again, and Jim takes his time licking his fingers off, watching Spock’s neck and cheeks color with green as he listens and sees Jim suck from the corner of his eye.

Then Jim wipes them off one more time, resolves that they’ll just have to shower in the morning, and they settle into comfortable silence against each other, Spock in Jim’s arms, Spock resting his own arms over Jim’s like they have always belonged there, against and intertwined with each other, and they drift off to sleep.

 

 


	2. Whatever you want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim commits to his plan, but ends up panicking because he has no idea how this is going to work when Spock deserves so much better then him. And a good friend wouldn't do this to him. Destiny be damned. Theirs isn't actually written in stone, and there's no guarantees that this can last. Spock, meanwhile, has a crisis of his own. 
> 
> But mostly, they get used to this new development. Not quite acknowledging reality of what it's really going to mean.
> 
> Or, literally: Jim has a crisis about moving in on Spock, tries to distract Spock by getting as much affection out of this as he can while he can, then brings up mind melding and to Jim's bewilderment, Spock flips out.

Spock tends to prefer some stability in the routine of his daily life. He likes to eat at about the same time each day, wander off with Jim to play chess in the evenings and only the evenings, usually. Retire to his own bedroom within a very specific window of time -- the deviation of which implied something large was happening, either outside or in Spock’s own mind. The schedules and circumstances of missions often veered Spock off such regularity, but it was obvious he still tried to maintain some semblance of routine when he could.

The last time Jim can remember him deviating by choice, they had been playing chess in the rec room -- in the evening, their usual time. Then they’d gone back to Jim’s room to play more, because the rec room had been commandeered by Scotty and a pack of fellow Engineers, all embarrassingly drunk and obnoxious. The two of them had played, Jim fiddling with the mood lighting for the fun of it -- Spock liked the pink and the green and the blue the most, apparently -- and at the edge of when Spock would normally retreat, Jim had started babbling about the things stressing him out. It had not been tactical. He hadn’t really intended to. But it happened. And Spock, sweetheart that he was, had stayed hours longer than was usual, and let Jim talk his pointed ears off. Spock had given a surprisingly enlightened amount of support and advice based on his own perspective.

Spock had not left that night until Jim had pushed out every piece of worry. He’d slept like a baby afterward, chest warm and tight.

 

Bones was so wrong about Spock, sometimes. Everyone in the crew was, sometimes. Everyone in the world. Universe maybe, with the possible exception of some Spock-related Vulcans. Spock is incredibly emotionally competent -- he knows how to comfort. He feels things just fucking fine. Spock’s just too nice and stubborn and self-harming to let anyone else see it. But Jim sees it. Tries very hard to. Ever since. Well. Since they started working together, really. For better or worse.

To make this whole arrangement easier on Spock, Jim decides, he should establish some regularity as soon as possible. Obviously.

The more they do this -- this physical thing -- the more Spock will expect it. Know when it’s supposed to be time for it. Better for both of them, really. Spock knowing when to go for it.

 

Jim woke up early, thoughts too restless, after the high of Spock against him had come down a smidgen, to sleep much.

His dreams had been a blur of the color blue, and the feeling of warmth, and brown eyes staring staring staring right through him and into him, penetrating and making him feel more vulnerable than any single experience in his waking life. Had Spock clawing into him, all nice, all too much, fingers pushing into Jim’s very skin but somehow it hadn’t been gorey or painful or creepy, just inevitable. Had Spock dusting fingers over Jim’s head and neck and ears and cheek and jaw like Jim was something precious and utterly delicate. Never quite touching hard enough to sink into Jim’s skin like the rest of the sweeps across Jim’s body by those perfect fingers. Perfect person.

Jim was still reeling, sleepy mind trying to reconcile the differences between the memories from last night and the vivid dreams.

 

They had two and a half hours, give or take a few minutes, before they had to go on duty. Barring some catastrophic emergency.

Spock had his face buried into Jim’s chest, curled in a crescent half ball toward Jim’s body, perfect hands clutching against Jim’s chest and sides like Jim was liable to disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. No wonder Jim had dreamt about being absorbed by those hands. Jim couldn’t see his eyes, but that black brown hair was delightfully -- but not enough -- disheveled against Jim’s chest.

He felt all warm and tight again. Suddenly his eyes pricked, and he let them fall shut long enough to recompose himself. Jim stroked his hands along Spock’s back, ghosting over Spock’s side and gentle heartbeat, listening with eyes still closed to Spock’s slow breathing against him. Petting through that dark hair and smoothing it out absently.

Spock was in his arms.

And reality was breaking down at an alarming rate. Impossible rate. Jim didn’t exactly make a habit of waking up with lovers.

This was too much. Not enough, it would never be enough, not with Spock. They could do this every day until they both died at once to go wherever brave men go in death, and Jim will have never had his fill of this. He rested his head on top of Spock’s. So soft. So warm. His. Spock felt like his.

But he isn’t, actually.

 

Spock is no one’s. Spock could walk away and never come back. To this room, to this thing they’re trying, to anything they ever try, to Jim. Even to Jim, Captain.

Jim can’t help holding Spock tighter, suddenly sympathizing with the fear of someone disappearing, impossible to prevent, no matter what he does. What a pair they must be.

Could be. It’s so glaringly obvious that this friendship is fragile as shattered glass, this new thing even more, probably. One wrong move, one wrong phrase, and it could all be lost forever.

How could Jim have been so casual about it last night? Fuck destiny, destiny wasn’t shit, older Spock from another time and another place, fuck his promises of familiarity and home. There was no guarantee, not in this life and not in any. Jim’s soul ached over it. How could reality be so cruel, and give him his Spock, his amazing perfect volatile stubborn fucking Spock, only to leave it all to chance. To Jim, his actions, his choices, his failures, and Spock’s unreadable unpredictable whims.

Jim always fucked things up. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than fucking this up. Losing the Enterprise, losing even fucking Earth maybe at this point -- because he can’t imagine coping with a loss like that _without_ Spock by his side to make him want to survive despite it. There’s no comparison.

And Spock has no idea how ruined he’s made Jim already. There’s no way he can, no reason Jim would ever want to let him. There’s burdens, things he shares with Spock because Spock’s ready and willing to help, and then there’s this. And Spock is perfect, and he doesn’t deserve shit like this.

Like Jim.

 

Spock’s hair is so soft. His fingers digging against Jim’s skin like he’s holding hostage, wonderful. Present. The sheets beneath them, and the blankets above, warm from their bodies. Breaths leaving Spock’s soft lips and pushing against Jim’s skin. Spock in his arms.

 _Such a bad friend_ , Jim thinks. Shakes the guilt from his mind for now. This is Spock, and Spock gave him permission to try this whole making him feel good thing. Liked it. And Spock’s the one who cuddled into him in the middle of the night and made Jim into a -- very willing -- pillow. Yeah, Jim wanted cuddling, but Spock does right now, on his own, in his sleep, and it’s nice to know for the moment the feeling’s mutual. Beyond nice.

 

Jim never in his wildest dreams ever considered he deserved anything as good as this.

Even in the height of arrogance -- gunning for the Enterprise and boasting his criminal record in the face of all the decent do-gooder Starfleet yuppies that probably deserved it more -- he hadn’t considered something like _this_.

Spock makes a weird little breathless grumble when Jim feathers his hands across Spock’s lower side and hip.

That’s interesting. Jim gently rakes his hands back and forth over the spot, suppressing the urge to giggle in delight when Spock full body twitches closer to Jim and away from his hand.

Spock is going to be so pissed when Jim wakes him up. They’ve got a little over two hours until work. Jim grazes his fingers around Spock’s ear and under it, and Spock jerks down so his head is pressed against Jim’s stomach, away from Jim’s hand. Very interesting.

He pets down Spock’s back slowly, and Spock relaxes his tightly curled body a touch, and Jim has a sneaking suspicion that Spock is actually already awake. Maybe, feigning sleep, cause he’s too proud to admit he’s a cuddle slut while fully aware of his actions. Cause, really, that would be the biggest story on the ship since they all found out Sulu actually kisses one of his aloe plants before going to sleep. Not that Jim would tell anyone -- this -- he’s pretty sure Spock doesn’t want them to talk about what they do non-platonically.

Suddenly Jim can’t remember if they actually discussed any rules about disclosure last night.

 

He strokes against Spock’s hip and the dip at the bottom of his back lightly, watches Spock buck and force them body to body. Spock’s hands are gripping tightly into the edge of Jim’s hip and thighs. Upper thighs.

He can’t stop smiling. Spock is ticklish, it’s so cute. Too cute. Jim does that soothing back motion again, but Spock’s totally got to be awake now, he feels tensed enough he must be. Jim decides to be a total asshole, and fake Spock out -- firmly petting against the middle of his back and letting his other hand suddenly dust through the bottom of Spock’s hairline.

And that does it. Spock is darting his head up to bore holes into Jim’s eyes, one hand snapped shut around Jim’s and holding it firmly an inch away from that particularly sensitive part of Spock’s neck. “Good morning,” Jim croons.

Spock lets his muscles relax, fingers still shackling Jim in place. And that’s a little, tiny bit, frustrating. He could have tickled Spock all morning, to be honest. That probably would have been a waste of time from Spock’s perspective, though.

For a single moment, Jim is slightly concerned Spock will pay him back in kind.

But the glare heaved at Jim is all tired exasperation, none of that tinged amusement Jim’s sure he’d see if Spock was going to fuck him up right now. “What time is it?”

His voice is groggy, and it makes Jim heat up and bubble over and Jim never thought a boring old uncontrolled voice would ever affect him so utterly. Jim glances over Spock’s head and checks. “Six twenty one.”

Spock grumbles -- grumbles! -- and Jim’s human heart can’t take so much at once.

“We don’t need to start getting ready until seven, maybe seven thirty.” Jim adds, helpfully, since Spock looks a bit too far gone right now from his  professionally minded demeanor. Spock, perfect fantastic too much, cuddles back into Jim’s stomach, nosing into it earnestly, curling back up against him, drawing his long legs up until one of his calves is poking between Jim’s thighs. “We don’t need to be at the compound until nine, but when we get there… there’s a meeting… so… punctual.”

So fucking cute. Never in Jim’s wildest dreams. Really. He could not have hoped Spock would be this uncomposed in his presence, not so damn soon. Not before years and agonizing years of  coaxing and kissing and begging and pushing against Spock’s better judgement. Fucking decades before he got cuddly possessive unashamed Spock, certainly. He’d always figured slam-against-the-wall-sex Spock would be slightly easier to unlock. Considering. Like, emotional vulnerability required per each kind of activity.

Never has he been so happy to be wrong. Jim’s kissing the top of Spock’s head, curling up too, before he thinks about it. Suddenly glaring at where Spock’s still restraining his hand. He moans his upset, violently tugging with no relent from those cruel fingers. “Lemme goooo.” He uses the rest of his body to jiggle Spock enough to piss him off and keep him from being totally comfortable.

Spock, the bastard, doesn’t loosen his grip at all. Pulls Jim’s hand down until it’s between them, still prisoner, cradled in between their skin, and waits. It’s a battle of patience and Jim has never wanted to be less patient in his life. Outside of work, anyway.

Finally, Jim stops moving.

His hand is released, and he tentatively strokes it down Spock’s body again, free. His other hand’s happily groping Spock’s upper thigh and shoving those stupid pants and underwear back down, since Spock apparently pulled them back up at some point in the night. Spock lets him, helps Jim and kicks them the rest of the way off once they’re down his thighs, then curls back up against Jim. Naked in his arms. Perfect.

Jim pets along Spock’s ear again, by his temple, and Spock jerks so hard Jim is afraid he’s going to be smacked for a moment. “No.” Spock intones out, crisp and even and totally back to awake alert composed mode, pinning both of Jim’s hands to the bed beside his head.

When did Jim end up on his back?

“No what?” Jim’s grinning like a maniac, probably. But between Spock’s naked legs is about as good as having Spock in between his own arms, apparently. This is great.

“Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

The look there is startlingly similar to how Spock looked once upon a time, in the middle of choking Jim on a console. And hey, Jim was underneath him then, too.

Probably a bad idea to get a hard on over memories that weren’t supposed to ever be wank material. Oh well.

Spock frees one of Jim’s hands to use his own, stare indicating that Jim’s in for a world of hurt if he doesn’t stay still. Then Spock flutters his hand against Jim’s lower hip, hands dipping just past the top of his underwear, then drifts to Jim’s neck and grazes and Jim can’t help but shudder.

He pins Jim with another stare, eyebrows drawn, and waits. Spock’s hand is petting over Jim’s shoulder and chest now, it’s distracting. “Oh,’ Jim says.

Spock pulls them both back sideways, and they’re almost-cuddling again, and waits, hands dancing across Jim’s back like he’s a thing that belongs to him, to explore and scratch and mark and touch however he pleases. He can. Could. Jim is okay with that.

“I’ll stop tickling you, I promise.” Spock does not fucking believe his lying ass one bit. “For now,” he amends.

Spock looks like he wants to devour Jim, and god that heat in his eyes -- let him. Let Spock take everything, more, whatever’s left and then some. “If you do it again, I will leave.”

“Okay,” Jim’ll be a good boy. For him. For now.

Spock’s satisfied, little smile touching the features of his face, and Jim melts against him.

 

There’s only so much willpower before Jim’s happily groping Spock again, excitement just rising incrementally the longer Spock lets him do it.

They’re looking at each other, and it’s horribly intimate, maybe. But all that fear from earlier is so gone it’s not even in their plane of existence. It’s just them, and there’s never been anywhere safer.

Spock’s been lazily pulling down Jim’s own last piece of clothing, not hesitant or anything, just being a jerk about it. Cause he sees Jim look eager about it, about Spock’s hand gripping his crotch, then his hip bone, then his ass, then his hip again. But he’s not particularly doing anything about it. Jim groans softly and moves so he keeps chasing the touch, wondering if Spock will get the message, or care.

Its an agonizing time, it feels like forever. Finally, those hands slip under and Jim feels fingers less than an inch from aggravated arousal that Spock totally, completely, caused on purpose. “What do you want, Jim?”

That voice is so fucking crisp, so proper, sounds _just_ like when Spock is telling Jim about the makeup of a new planet on the bridge, bent over that scanner of his. Jim is never going to work a shift without getting a hard on _again_.

“Whatever you want,” he hears himself moaning, probably too much, “whatever you want, Spock.” He’s quickly stripped and Spock’s back in front of him, fingers massaging his back side and slipping down between and Jim’s too far gone to actually feel embarrassed even though rationally he’s a bit overwhelmed by it. “Please. Please. Whatever you want,” he’s begging out, pulling Spock flush to him and rutting them together, so happy he feels Spock equally aroused where they touch.

Spock’s got that amusement sparkling in his eyes when Jim flutters his own open, forcing himself to view this glorious experience in case he never gets to again. Jim can’t stop smiling, wants to nuzzle and bury himself into Spock until they turn into one.

 

There’s nothing better then this. Then Spock gently steering him onto his back and kissing down his neck, slotting their bodies into a perfect slide and rocking them together, fingers dancing against Jim’s hair, and thighs. Moaning delicately, barely, against Jim’s stomach.

And Jim looks down, and Spock is regarding Jim’s cock, and Jim has such a sudden blood rush that he feels faint for a moment. Then a damp tongue is darting out as those brown eyes sear through him, as one hand wraps around Jim and the other strokes Jim’s collarbone fondly.

It’s too much. Too much too good too everything and Jim hauls Spock up until they’re lips are sliding across each other, until Spock’s hands are clutching Jim’s shoulders like a lifeline, and their eyes are fluttering shut and it’s a reprieve and a whole other conundrum. Pushing Spock below him and licking into him like if he just kisses hard enough, he’ll figure out what Spock thinks and who Spock is supposed to be underneath all the shields. Spock wrapping around him, letting Jim slot between those warm welcome thighs and they’re rocking again. Thrusting again. Lost again.

Those fingers are still darting solidly from Jim’s skull and shoulders and back to barely there touches across his jaw like Spock just can’t get a grip, and they’re kissing like old lovers saying hello after a trip apart. Slow and deep and Jim wants to be so gentle but they’re not, not enough, never enough, but it’s good anyway.

Finally, finally, Jim is shuffling down, fast, speaking against Spock’s skin and the sweat beading up from the teasing as he works his way down with light bites and pecks. “I want you to feel good, let me, let me Spock.” And Jim hears a real, audible, moan from his perfect perfect Spock and time doesn’t exist.

Spock’s gripping his hair so hard it’s stinging, but Jim doesn’t care, because whenever he glances up, Spock is watching him with hazy lust and mouthing ‘Jim’ between bitten lips and that makes pain a non-existent.

Jim kisses around the curls of dark hair between Spock’s thighs and waits, deciding to be just as cruel as Spock, and waits two whole minutes, kissing open mouthed against quivering thighs, until Spock finally says “Please, Jim. You can.” and at the last his voice breaks off from business usual to whine “Jim.”

And they’re lost. It takes forever, because Jim wants it to, wants to drag out Spock shivering and keening and fighting to keep his eyes open, wants to see if Spock will tug his hair enough to pull any out -- he doesn’t, barely -- wants to watch every little jarring reaction that Spock never lets loose in public, to anyone. This is for Jim.

Jim knows Spock’s coming before he tastes it, because that grip in his hair suddenly laxes and fingers skim his temples before Spock throws them against the sheets and fists them, biting down gasps.

Then Jim is being a monster, and sucking a little more, watching Spock thrash wildly in spurts and Spock tries to roll away for a second but Jim holds his hips down, torturing for a few wonderful seconds more before pulling off and kissing softly. Spock is letting him, letting him have this. This is what Spock wants.

Jim shivers and kisses up, soft, taking his time, smoothing his hands over everything he sees, slow, smoothing the remnant tremors away. Kisses Spock’s cheeks like an utter sap, then pecks him on those open lips and soothes the little bites with his tongue before pulling back and taking in the soft open face he finds there.

They fall back into slow kissing and regular breathing, rolling onto their sides, bodies a few comfortable inches apart except for where they drape over each other. Jim is massaging every place he can reach, taking his time, feeling Spock melt into the care.

Spock’s hands are still off of Jim.

They stay like that for another long eternity, until Spock’s hands finally come back and thread into Jim’s. Kissing at each others jaws and faces and necks and shoulders in fond presses. It’s so beyond anything imaginable, Spock so giving. Showing himself.

Like that night he told Jim what a good Captain he thought he was, and helped Jim work through why the choices he’d made had been the only ones he could have, and made him truly believe that there was nothing worth beating himself up over. When Spock had sat at his desk, and then at the couch beside him, and touched his shoulder -- and that gesture from Spock had been like a two hour hug it’d helped so much.

Jim mutters out the time, because it’s edging past seven and they do need to take showers. Spock breaths warmly against his neck, an acknowledgement, then suddenly bites into it and Jim’s shocked enough to still.

When Spock’s finally done sucking against the damage, he pulls back until they’re looking at each other, and says “You don’t mind if I leave visible marks, do you?”

He can’t stop laughing once he starts, and Spock seems pleased as peaches, cradling Jim in his arms and pleasantly touching less innocent areas as he waits for Jim to come back to himself. “You fucker.”

“That’s up to you,” Spock almost murmurs, still ecstatic in his own way. Then, “You didn’t answer me.”

Before Spock can turn serious again, “I don’t mind. I did say whatever you want. I’m cool with it. Whatever you want.”

If Spock were more expressive, Jim would almost think he’d just looked taken aback for a split second there. Then Spock has fingers probing just barely into Jim and that startles Jim enough to actually buck into Spock, cause that’s quite the change from mushy snuggling.

“What I want. Is for you to be pleased now,” Spock’s face is so close, and it’s too much -- too much -- and his voice is so sure and _this_ is why Jim wanted to be in control last night. He’s drowning now. “If that is acceptable.”

Jim gulps, and nods.

Moans the instant Spock’s other hand touches his junk -- and when did Spock manage to get it slick with spit? -- and let’s Spock do his thing, whatever that’s going to be.

He hates himself for it, but when Spock is curiously biting into his thighs by the base of it, then laving over the harshness of it, Jim pipes up, “It’s seven seventeen,” through intermittent pants of Spock’s name.

Spock waits for Jim to look down at him, stops moving until Jim’s stopped begging, then swallows down Jim’s cock, eyes dancing.

Jim’s returning the favor with the hair-pulling, and Spock doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice -- because when he tries to force Spock to take more he slips away and when Jim’s trying to catch a break there’s not a force that could have made that mouth relent. And those fingers are still dancing dangerously close to inside of him, every so often pressing but not pushing all the way in.

Spock’s great. He’s a great guy. He’s not a fucking sweetheart, though. He’s a fucking nightmare, dragging this out like he’s got a bone to pick. And it just seems like the more Jim moans and begs and pushes into it, the more Spock is content to deny him. This is totally pay back.

Spock wouldn’t make them late, would he?

Would he?

Spock pulls off his mouth, his hands sliding out to hold Jim’s hips down as he tries to chase after it. “Do you want to orgasm?”

Jim gawps.

Spock starts to move out from between his legs, and Jim yanks him back frantically. “Yes! Yes of course I -- please!”

He catches those lips tug upward momentarily before Spock compliantly drifts back down and furiously sucks and flicks his tongue and adds his hand to the mix to work the base and Jim’s lost, past lost and faraway and right here. Connected to Spock, every atom latched onto his presence like a magnet.

And then it’s over, and Jim collapses into himself, Spock popping off obscenely, then taking his time to nuzzle into Jim’s navel in approval, before making his way back up and letting Jim connect their lips tiredly.

The hand that was doing filthy things a moment ago intertwines with Jim’s and squeezes happily.

They don’t end up having time to shower, and they grab bagels to eat on their way to the meeting. Jim doesn’t get the time to get Spock off twice like he’d wanted to, before they had to leave, but life can’t be perfect all the time. And Spock’s unfairly, apparently, able to regulate that sort of stuff, so he looks prim and proper as ever once his hair is brushed smooth.

Except for the little tears in his lips where he’d bit down on them over and over. Jim’s in love.

 

_______________

 

No one says anything, but at one point in the afternoon Jim has to pee, and in the mirror he realizes he’s got a nice big bruise blossoming from his jaw to the collar of his shirt. It’s actually big enough Jim could maybe write it off, if you squint, as some punch or slap from a recent fight. With his luck though, his crew is going to lose faith in him and accuse him of fucking around with the aliens they’re monitoring.

He wishes they had a higher opinion of him then that.

 

The second work is over -- and Spock is still beside him, because they’re usually like glue when duties permit anyway -- he urges Spock to come back to his room. Cause he’s still in the middle of executing a _plan_ and establishing frequency is _key_. If something happens a lot, Spock will start putting effort into maintaining it.

This has nothing to do with how happy Jim is with the whole… ordeal. Okay yeah, he’s thinking with his dick, maybe. Thinking with his heart, overmuch.

But this is for Spock too! So his damn life is happier too! And as long as he’s giving Jim (admittedly hard to read) signs to confirm that it’s pleasing him, Jim is going to keep trying.

So they’re back in Jim’s room, the bed still unmade and messy from before, and it’s remarkably easy to slip from ranting about the problems of the day, like how Chekov's theory for engine improvement is too untestable to rely on for now, and into touching and kissing and pulling and stripping and sinking to his knees in front of Spock and practically begging to suck him.

 

It’s bright in the bedroom, lights at one hundred percent, and Spock is gorgeous. And still wearing far too many clothes. So the second he says Jim’s name like a prayer, Jim goes about removing the last offending articles. Tugging those boots and socks off, yanking those tights pants down and off as Spock stumbles against the wall from it, tossing them all across the room because Jim doesn’t even want them to think about getting dressed for the remainder of today.

Spock’s fucking mostly composed, and it’s sexy as hell because it means Jim gets to provoke and dig until he manages to make him unravel again. The only sign Spock is affected, besides a light flush of green across his cheekbones and shoulders, is the desperate flicking of his fingers across Jim’s head and neck.

Spock’s other hand is pressed into the wall like he’s trying to knock it down.

Just that little, tiny, sign. That too hard press, unnecessary and useless, serving no function. That’s Spock falling apart.

Other than that, he’s stiff and tall, not slouching in the slightest, knees locked, chest open, impressive and confident as Jim presses his hips into the wall and licks up and down his shaft. Deciding he’s going to maybe turn this into a competition, see which one of them can be a bigger jerk about drawing it out. Before one of them caves. Jim doesn’t want to admit that he’s almost certain he’ll be the one to break.

Spock’s stuttering against his face, for uncontrolled seconds, then he stills and then it’s slower thrusting, like he’s trying to be accommodating to Jim, rather than needy.

The hand in Jim’s hair smooths through it, more gentle like when they’re just making out, and Jim positively glows from the physical approval.

He ends up not being able to maintain patience, and rushes Spock to the finish line. Because he’s got plans for night two, and they include seeing how many times the guy can come before he’s got no composure, not an iota, left.

He licks up the mess, because he was being sloppy, and loves how Spock watches him, loves feeling Spock’s fingers pet through his hair affectionately, loves how they almost cradle his face. Distantly, forlorn over the fact Spock doesn’t actually succumb to that level of tenderness though, because they slide back into the safety of Jim’s hair ultimately, refusing to hold his face like a legitimate lover might.

He pushes to his feet, loving the fact he’s allowed to run his hands over Spock’s sides like this. That Jim is allowed to hold him, touch him, break him, eventually. Wow.

They catch their breath, and Jim makes Spock kiss him for a moment before they fall small inches apart again, and Jim offhandedly mentions “So, I figured you meant when you said we do this in private, that we don’t, uh, tell anyone?”

Jim is really quite proud that he didn’t maul Spock while they were still on duty, actually. It’s so natural to mix their usual dispositions with this new element, it’s unreal.

Spock, to his credit, is unaffected by the turn in focus, still looking sated but burning into Jim, the pull of black holes dragging Jim in and god, Jim wants it, couldn’t fight it if he wanted to. Jim kisses him again, then moves to nibble really lightly at Spock’s ear. Spock lets him.

“That would be for the best.”

“What?” Jim thinks those pointy tips are so cool, they feel so different compared to anyone else he’s ever done this to.

Spock actually moves his head away then, which, sad. “If we kept this private.”

Jim nods enthusiastically, hands playing with the cheeks of Spock’s ass, smiling distractedly. Spock lets him be annoyingly human for the moment.

 

They drift over to the bed and Spock is suddenly pushing him down rather hard, hands shoving his shoulders down and Spock is slotting between his legs and boxing him in before he even realizes this was going to be a possibility. God, Spock turning out to be kind of alpha is just another cherry on top of this whole mess.

Jim’s grinning like a loon, and Spock seems pleased -- which is the point of all this -- but also somewhat confused about it. “I take it you are not tired of me, yet.”

 _‘I could never be tired of you’_ , he wants to declare, knows it’s disgustingly infuriatingly true. Instead, he’s hooking his legs around Spock’s hips, smiling like a shark, biting playfully against Spock’s collar bone, just below where he knows his uniform reaches up to normally. ‘ _I love you,_ ’ he wants to say into Spock’s skin and until it imprints and scars. “We’re just getting started,” and Jim’s rolling them over, stomach fluttering over the fact Spock’s letting him. Liking him.

“I would prefer the pleasure did not just go one way, tonight.” Spock and his damn clear pronunciation, he should be moaning incoherently already. That’s what Jim wants. Hopefully Spock wants it too.

Jim can feel Spock getting hard again, he recovers a lot faster then Jim, there’s precome sliding on Jim’s stomach where they touch.

He’s straddling Spock. Wildly, he’s overcome with the urge to ride him.

Too soon. Not yet. Lots of time for that. Besides, the more he can keep Spock wanting, the longer this lasts. It’s a delicate balance, maybe, Jim thinks, between enough to be better than Spock will have ever had, but not enough to think he’s had it all.

“Whatever you want,” he smirks into Spock’s neck, feels fingers wind through his hair and latch on, harsh.

“I want you,” Spock growls.

They’re lost.

 

Spock let’s Jim play around for a while, work him up again. Lets Jim hold both of them in hand and jerk them off as they thrust against each other. Uses one hand to help Jim, until Spock gets close, then both his hands are doing that dance again. Where they pull so hard and sharp Jim thinks he’s going to be forced to develop a kink for agonizing hair pulling, then they flick over his temples and cheeks like he’s something cherishable and untouchable, before pulling again like Spock wants to rip him apart.

Jim’s head is spinning, it hurts so much, and he comes like that, and then Spock follows, and those hands finally relax and pet almost apologetically.

 

Spock lets them cuddle for a few minutes afterward, probably because it’s what Jim said he likes. Jim wouldn’t exactly mind some more sexual attention right now, but hey, Spock in his arms. Life is great. Plus he needs a chance to pull himself together, if he’s being realistic.

He pets Spock’s hair too, and it’s nice. Just this.

Jim is such a fucking sap. This isn’t good.

If Spock were a normal man, totally human maybe, he’d see right through Jim’s ploy. It would be all over. And wow, that’s a scary thought, time to bury it.

Exhaustion, Jim hypothesizes, must contribute to the efficiency of breaking down Spock’s walls, because he’s made the guy orgasm twice but it’s only twenty one hundred and he still looks like he’s just walked off the bridge, so damn put together. Though there’s a warm clarity in Spock’s gaze that’s just like this morning, like when Spock was kissing him slowly and they never wanted to get up.

Spock suggests they need a shower. The fact he says ‘they’ does not escape Jim, and it’s nice. However, Jim still counters,“We’ll just get sweaty again if we take one now.”

So Spock submits. Then gets that curious, dangerous, look about him. He wants to play. To push and prod and see if he can break Jim. Usually Jim glories in the attention, when they’re working and Spock starts picking on him -- sometimes Jim loathes himself for enjoying it so much, because Spock pushes when Jim is _right_ sometimes. And then Spock gets himself put in danger, because Jim let Spock needle him into allowing it.

Just because it’s nice, it’s pleasant, doesn’t make it a good thing.

 

“You don’t have any particular limits on what you will allow me to do to you, Jim?” Spock’s saying, evenly, not even meeting Jim’s eyes, in favor of watching Jim’s body react to his hands fluttering down in mimic of Jim’s earlier tickling.

This is a fucking test, probably. Jerk. “Whatever you want, like I said. I’m easy that way,” Jim’s being cocky, knows Spock likes-hates that. It gets him an appraising eyebrow raise, then that particular tell vanishes.

Spock sounds _so_ good when he’s vaguely threatening, Jim’s trying to keep himself from reacting just because he feels self conscious about how expressive he’s being compared to Spock, right now.

Spock looks like he wants to do awful things. The fact he’s projecting even an inkling of his thoughts in his demeanor is making Jim all kinds of dizzy. He props himself up a little, on his elbows, over Spock, because he needs distance or else he’s going to slip so far he’ll never find the surface again.

Spock wraps his hands around Jim’s shoulders and neck and leans up to lick languidly into his mouth, and Jim lets him.

They break apart, and Jim’s brain suddenly starts up into hyper-drive as if making up for lost time. “Have you ever been with a man before?”

Spock’s actually, really a bit shocked at the sudden question. And Jim takes a moment to really enjoy the little lapse in control that allowed it.

“Well, have you Spock?”

“You mean, sexually?”

 _‘No, I mean fucking deep head over heels in love_ , _like hell you’ve even_ been _in love before’_ , Jim thinks, barking out an approximation of a laugh before he can help it. Before fear crashes in and Jim wonders if Spock has loved before, besides family, if he even knows what it feels like, or if it’s all a mystery to him. All unacknowledged, or unknown, or even worse, _unwanted_ , on Spock’s end.

Spock seems to think the laugh was a response, and bristles like Jim’s made fun of him, tensing just the slightest bit, but on Spock it’s a red flag that he’s ready to fight if it comes to it. “Yes.” It almost comes out condescending, but Jim thinks that’s because Spock’s still peeved that he’s naked under Jim and Jim had the nerve to laugh.

“Oh.” Jim is suddenly sober. “I thought --”

Spock gives him a look like the last thing Jim should consider doing next, is bring up Spock’s ex.

“Have you ever fucked a guy?” Back to light tones, sound casual, make this a safe theoretical and experience discussion, like their talks when they’re working or relaxing and passing the time like friends.

Spock looks positively miffed, and actually turns his head an inch away from Jim, which is quite the gesture coming from him.

“Has a guy ever… done you?”

Spock moves his head back, dark eyes flashing like he’s reconsidering every interaction with humans he’s ever had. It’s messed up, but Jim is really enjoying the display of emotions right now, in spite of the content of them. “No.”

“Oh.”

He feels like he should be doing something to make Spock drop his hackles, so he scoots down and starts kissing Spock’s abdomen, and it tightens underneath him before relaxing. Spock lets his hands pet through Jim’s hair, careful to only stroke through his hair and on the back of his neck.

“So you’re a virgin in that regard?”

Spock is a little exhausted with him. Which, good, he’ll come apart easier later. “I am not inexperienced. Jim.”

“Yeah, so you’ve given blow jobs before,” and before Spock can actually affirm or deny -- and honestly even if it was Spock’s first time, the fucker would claim he has because technically he’s done it with Jim _now_ \-- Jim keeps rambling, “And like eaten out girls and stuff, but --”

“I prefer this.”

Jim stills and looks up at Spock, “Prefer what?”

“...” For a long moment, Spock looks like the last thing he said was a mistake, a slip, and it’s great. Then Spock decides to commit, because that will make it seem less like he messed up. Denial. Spock is great at that. “Oral sex. With men. It is less messy.”

Jim giggles in surprise before he can regulate himself, plus he’s not much for restraint from either of them anyway. “I dunno about that,” he says into Spock’s chest, then props his chin on it and stares at him. “Girls usually don’t shoot into your face or make you swallow.”

Spock, almost shrugs -- lifting his shoulders for no good reason noncommittally, and it’s so cute Jim wants to make him do it more. “But you can minimize the… evidence. If we engage in … before duty, we do not necessarily need to clean up afterwards to be presentable. In the other case… I would need to clean myself off, make sure there’s no fluid…”

Jim’s trying to muffle his laughter in Spock’s skin, but the vibration just seems to be pissing him off more. And the fact he’s irking Spock is just delighting Jim more. He pulls himself together long enough to contemplate how down and dirty Spock must’ve gotten while eating out, if he’s worried about wiping the wetness off his face afterwards and… Jim has never been more jealous of Uhura. And that’s a weirdly specific feeling, that he’s never going to know precisely what Spock going to town on a pussy feels like. “Yeah but like… at least if you turn a girl on, no one’s gonna know, if she’s gotta rush off. If we get turned on, it’ll be kinda obvious unless we take care of it.”

Spock settles, because at least Jim isn’t laughing anymore. Though he’s got a hand tight in Jim’s hair like he’s ready to tug if he feels Jim deserves it. And. Jim is definitely already developing a Pavlovian response to that particular stimuli. “I can regulate my responses. That is a non-issue for me.”

“Well lucky you.”

They’re both looking devious now, and when it’s like this Jim thinks maybe they were made for each other, somehow.

Spock acts so fucking superior sometimes. Jim wants to make him quiver.

 

So he slides down again, hyper aware of Spock’s fingers, and experimentally pushes Spock’s thighs further apart to see if he’ll be allowed.

When they acquiesce, Jim grins and quickly flops Spock over, and it’s enough of a surprise it works, then Spock’s halfway scrambling to his knees and stalling like he’ll stay put if he’s supposed to, expected to. “Don’t worry,” Jim says, smoothing his hands down Spock’s thighs.

It has the dual effect of making Spock collapse on the bed again, and tense up like a statue. Spock’s hands are by his head, deceptively flat against the sheets -- he’s purposely making himself relax, and that’s no good. It’s not real. Whatever’s real is buried underneath that stark control.

“I like learning more about you,” Jim says, kissing the dimples at the bottom of Spock’s back, pulling his cheeks apart, just a little, enough to make Spock involuntarily shudder. “I like that we get to do this.” He’s kissing lower, so close to that space between, and Spock’s hands are trembling as they try to stay flat against the bed. Spock knows where he’s going with this. “Is this okay?” He squeezes the flesh in his hands, trying to calm him down momentarily, but when Spock doesn’t answer right away he freezes. “Spock?”

“This is not -- less messy than with a woman.” Spock’s still worked up, but the mirth in his voice is comforting. “I presume you’re going to ‘eat me out’?”

Jim grins and dives in then, loves when Spock actually squeaks before it turns into a cut off moan.

 

There’s not even a point. He just wants Spock to feel good. Feel something new, that’s just his and Jim’s to have. The perfect noises trying to slip out, they’re of course, good too.

Eventually Jim feels a lingering pity and pushes Spock forward onto his knees a little, so he can reach between those legs and flick at Spock’s leaking head. And again, Jim wonders what it will take to train Spock to come from minimal stimulation -- probably a lot if Jim keeps fucking spoiling him like this. It ends up a mess, and Jim’s hand gets trapped awkwardly between the bed and Spock, who’s rutting like he’s trying to break something, and toward the end he ends up rocking back onto Jim’s tongue and single finger teasing around the edge and it’s amazing.

It doesn’t matter that Jim is bent over and cramping up a little, that Spock is pulverizing his poor trapped hand trying to get enough friction to get over the edge, because Spock’s stammering out his name in just the right way, and it’s loud, and Jim wants it to be that loud -- louder -- every single time.

One of Spock’s hands flies backwards, awkward over his shoulder, and scrambles to grab at Jim’s face but can’t quite reach -- or maybe doesn’t want to -- and flitters fingertips against Jim’s shoulder instead, opening and closing like Spock can’t cope with anything at all. Finally, Jim’s squeezing so hard and flicking insistently and he knows it’s rough on Spock but Spock is too far gone to _care_ , and he feels Spock release and shudder as he comes down, too tired to even stumble away from Jim’s mouth even though he’s panting desperately in the short seconds until Jim moves it off him. He climbs up and pulls Spock onto his side, and they’re spooning, Spock’s hand quickly coming to tug on his hair like a lifeline, leaning back into him, relieved.

They really should take a shower soon.

 

Plus, Jim doesn’t think they can keep fucking around so much without being too tempted to go right for the final course. He wants to hold that off for a good while, so they need to slow down. Take their time. There _will_ be time.

Once they catch their breath, and the buzz wears off nearly completely, Spock rolls to face him and stroke along his hairline and ear, so close to his cheek, but not quite. Jim touches Spock’s cheek, anyway, looks at him like he’s everything good in this world, and Spock lets him.

All that moaning and squirming, and for all that Spock is unreadable again.

“Why do you do that?” Jim says quietly, because suddenly it is quiet, somehow. It’s intimate and personal and it doesn’t matter that the room is bright and they’re covered in sweat and flushed and they’re coworkers and friends. They’re strangers, and pieces that fit together, and it’s strange. Like all the times Jim has heard ‘I love you’ but, different, because he’s on the other side now. He’s the one that would say it, here. And he knows how the other side reacts, having been that person too many times in the past.

“Do what?” Spock has the slightest twinge of roughness in his voice, in the quiet he uses to match Jim.

“Touch my face. Try to. When you’re… when I’m making you feel good.”

It’s an innocent enough question, and he’s just being curious, so the way Spock’s eyes turn into the void, throws Jim for a loop.

It gets worse when Spock doesn’t answer.

He made Spock feel vulnerable. That’s not safe territory.

 

He can’t stop himself from rushing off the cliff. Jim hasn’t changed much since he was a kid. And it’s never come to bite him in the ass so hard. “Is it --” Something clicks in Jim’s brain, like two huge winding tracks that finally added the last section to join into one. “Is it a mind meld thing?” He doesn’t know why it clicks. Though, some distant tingle of awareness makes him think it’s more than just his usual awareness of what Spock just _means_.

Jim can actually see the walls come up around Spock, cold and thick and relentless. “Why do you think that?” Spock says, voice icier than a tundra, worse than a robot. He’s not going to give anything away. He might even take something. Maybe Jim’s heart. Just crush it all up, all because Jim had to go and push.

And he’s still pushing and he can’t stop and he doesn’t know _why_. “I just… I mind melded with the other you. The older one. He did it by touching my face so like, I just thought, maybe,” Jim doesn’t need to keep talking, he knows he’s right, Spock’s looking at him like death, “...that mighta been what you were trying to do too.”

Spock is cold and perfectly expressionless, and somehow Jim can still tell he’s appalled.

Jim rushes to try to comfort him somehow, beyond his depth, trying to pull Spock’s immovable body towards his, then curling up into Spock when he won’t move. Rubbing his hands up and down Spock’s back and arms, and Spock still isn’t moving, is somehow still giving off the signal that Jim’s fingers are like burns across his skin. It’s like that for a one terrible, hopeless minute, then Spock firmly draws away, motions calm and betraying nothing.

Once he’s half a foot away, Jim’s hands opening and closing miserably in the space between them, but not reaching out again, Spock stills, still unreadable.

It’s another awful minute, and then Jim can’t bear it anymore even if talking means everything crashing down. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong Spock,” he’s so desperate he can’t take it, he can’t take this, all he wants is to help but Spock won’t let him. “Please. Please tell me. I’m sorry if --”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Spock says mechanically, cutting him off.

Jim waits, pleading.

“You did not do anything wrong, Jim.”

“I’m sorry I mentioned it, I didn’t know --”

“I am glad you mentioned it,” Spock does not sound glad, he doesn’t sound _anything_.

It’s scary. “Why are you “ Jim can’t say upset, doesn’t know how to say it, “Why’d you pull away then?”

Spock lets himself unwind, piece by piece as is usual when he’s doing it purposely, and that’s such a good sign. But not good enough to calm Jim down. He feels like anything he does might suddenly shatter the universe.

It only maybe takes thirty seconds, but it feels like years to Jim, for Spock to relax everything but his mask of a face and move himself back to Jim and wrap his arms carefully around Jim’s sides.

And it’s horrible because Jim doesn’t want to be comforted, doesn’t want shit except for Spock to feel better, and he hates this. But how stupid it would be to try and make Spock stop, when he’s like this, when he’s so messed up.

“I did not know my counterpart melded with you.” Spock still sounds so far away, and his body feels welcoming but it’s a false welcome, because it’s being modulated to be that way right now, and Jim hates how helpless he is to it all.

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Jim is saying, lightly, so desperate to ease whatever’s locking Spock inside his own mind. “I didn’t even really know what was going on, at the time.”

That doesn’t help. That doesn’t help at all. Jim feels Spock’s fingers tense, and now they’re still gentle but it’s because Spock’s making them stay flat and not fisted, trying so hard to reign in everything going on inside himself. It makes Jim’s chest hurt.

“I -- I’m sorry. I didn’t --” Jim doesn’t know what he’s saying.  
  
Spock doesn’t much care to hear it. His lips press into Jim’s, and it’s a sliver of salvation, because it’s his Spock flooding in, fragile and broken and overwhelmed and all in this gentle solid connection. Then Spock is pulling back, still unreadable, but his hands have stopped restraining themselves, they’re really genuinely relaxed again. “You did nothing.”

Spock’s voice has a trace of softness, and Jim’s staring at him waiting for his face to follow suit and let go.

“I just.” Spock is back, because robo-Spock doesn’t make mistakes with words. “Melds are a very personal thing. They can be. I would not subject you to it without.” Spock isn’t looking at him, pushes his face slowly into Jim’s neck and chest. Jim lets him. “I will not do that to you, Jim.” Jim feels Spock saying more, into his chest, but it’s not clear like the rest of his words had been tonight. Jim can’t be sure of what he says, and that’s a first with Spock.

Too long, and too little, after Spock’s unexpected bout of vulnerability, and they’re getting up to shower, separately. Spock insists Jim goes first, while he -- practically -- replaces the soiled sheets and blanket.

Jim’s worried to give Spock so much time alone after the freak out, but knows better than to risk a worse follow up, and gets some paperwork done while Spock takes his turn in the bathroom.

There’s a scary period where Jim has no idea what Spock is going to do next, if this is going to be the end. But then Spock is considerately pulling pajama pants and shirts out for both of them -- a short sleeve shirt for Jim and a long sleeve one for himself. And they get changed, impersonally, like they’re in a locker room and not fuck buddies now.

But once all that’s done with, Spock tugs him to bed when he stands there perilously, unsure in his own room and his own skin. Then Spock is pulling him against his chest, and it doesn’t matter how confusing everything is, because there’s nothing confusing about this. Jim says he’s not tired, he could go five more rounds.

Spock almost-laughs into Jim’s neck, and it tickles. Jim thinks he’s doing it on purpose. Jim sets the lights at a nice dim blue, and resolves that the next thing they talk about will be something mundane and safe and easy on Spock.


	3. It's nice, the company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim doesn't know how to do this, be in love, or if there's any right way to do anything about it. So he keeps fumbling in this grey area as long as Spock will let him. 
> 
> Meanwhile, life goes on, missions carried out. Spock is reminded of the state of the other Vulcans, and himself. Conflicted as to whether he can or should help them, what the help could mean. Time is ticking down and Spock is going to have to act eventually. 
> 
> Or, literally: Jim and Spock play a silly suggestive game while cuddling, have a stressful work day with the rest of the crew, then end the night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features considerably more plot and a bit less porn. I wanted the aliens to be somewhat fantastical, like the ones in TOS episodes like "Who Mourns For Adonais" and "Plato's Stepchildren," since I really adore how in TOS so many of the plots go wild in that direction, and why not? I also wanted to focus in on Spock a bit more. He has a lot of growth to get through before they can really be together. Also, not that it needs to be said, but narrators can be unreliable. Most of the POV so far has been Jim's and he's rather guided by his own feelings and doubts. He's not the only one. Part of this chapter is in Uhura's POV, and she has an intensely different perspective. I wanted to touch a bit on why Nyota and Spock didn't work out, and how that might have affected them. 
> 
> Quotes that inspire pieces of the story: 
> 
> "Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched." - Amok Time
> 
> "Rest your head upon my shoulder.  
> I just wanna feel your lips against my skin...  
> I'm sorry but I fell in love tonight, I didn't mean to fall in love tonight...  
> I'm trying not to show, that I don't want to let this go.  
> Is there somewhere you can meet me?" - Is there Somewhere, Halsey.

 

Navigating around Spock is a minefield.

Jim wonders if there will ever be a day he can reconcile the fact they fall into place like two souls split at birth with the fact they constantly drag against each other like two different kinds of rockside, and all that crumbling and grating isn’t doing them any good. Well, maybe it is, but it’s brutal anyway. It’s like earthquakes, every second they’re not fitting together. But god, when they _do_ fit.

It’s so worth it. Just for how good it is when they’re doing it right.

Maybe it’s the universal fuck up that took his dad, Spock’s mom. Maybe that’s why there’s any earthquakes between them at all. Maybe in the other place, they got to skip this part.

And Jim knows it’s a part. That he has to work through. Because if it wasn’t important, they wouldn’t be grating against each other every time they got near it. Jim has to make the edges smooth out, mesh. Or else it’s going to keep them from getting closer. Might even make them collapse.

 

It being… everything that’s scary.

Scarier than black holes, then Starfleet disapproval, then Romulan threats. Scary things that can actually keep Jim and Spock apart -- their own fucking issues. Jim’s own incompetence in the face of communicating with this horribly stubborn clueless wonderful singularity named Spock.

Jim would say, no big deal, he became the youngest ever captain after getting arrested for years and literally committing academic fraud, albeit in an extremely intelligent way. But this isn’t like that. And that, all that, was a fluke - Jim got this captaincy by being marooned and breaking a good man and letting a planet die. Him becoming captain was really, probably, the bad cherry on top of a horrible list of things that happened in sequence.  All this, every moment since, has been him just trying to make it the least bad thing on that list.

He might even have Spock fooled. Thinking he’s serving an actually good captain. Which, hey, maybe Jim is, but it was hardly a guaranteed thing back when he forced Spock to follow his lead, in the beginning.

It’s morning and Jim has the lights set on a dim warm dreamy pink, and Spock just left the shower, dark hair damp and bangs slightly clinging to his forehead, and he’s giving Jim the smallest smile, a softness in those glittering eyes.

 

Jim can’t take this.

He smiles helplessly back up, lost.

They aren’t dressed yet. Spock’s been adjusting well to the suddenly Jim-filled schedule and Jim is satisfied to note that the playful excess of orgasms lately might actually be doing something measurably productive for his first officer. Besides just, well, being fun. Despite the absolutely miserable diplomatic mission they’ve been swamped with, the both of them have been rather relaxed overall in their down time. Manageably content. Actually not dying for shore leave yet, like literally -- which is what usually happens during missions like this, the both of them, and eventually the other senior officers, slowly draining until all their performances suffer and they’re crawling to missions end just hoping they’ll make it without starting a war accidentally.

He might, even, argue that because of how much Spock he’s been seeing, this mission might even get stored in his memories as a favorite. If only because he’s got every miserable bit of work bordered by moments of Spock undone against him, breathing out his name like prayer, flushed and warm and with him. His.

But not, actually.

 

Jim doesn’t bother throwing on clothes yet, he’s feeling playful. Spock’s indulging him, sitting nearby on the bed, lonely green towel wrapped around his waist, and lets Jim reach out and absently massage his shoulders.

Spock’s been adjusting easily, as expected, to their dynamic -- the frequency definitely does help. Jim thinks he might risk touching Spock more on duty too… just to make sure it really sticks. There’s always the risk that, well, that is what will do him in. Too much too soon, too greedy, and Spock will have enough of it, draw a line, cut him out.

But in this moment, Spock’s warm brown eyes regarding him, delicate fingers dancing over Jim’s softly, Jim feels deceptively secure in thinking Spock might not mind.

No matter how good it feels, it's a deception.  


Spock hasn’t been all right since last night. He’s still fucked up over it, whatever it was. The mind meld? The other Spock? And that’s still not anywhere near close to explaining anything! Jim can’t get it, thinks any hope of Spock opening up more are decades away again. It’s back to the drawing board of shitty improvised plans to worm his way closer, stumbling through that fucking minefield again. 

Yeah, Jim’s moderately sure their friendship isn’t going to be lost if he messes up. But he’s grown incredibly fond of this -- of leaning into Spock’s body and pressing a kiss. Feeling Spock hold him like he’s something special. It sounds like gravity disappearing, the idea of losing this.

 

Spock’s moving his lips over to Jim’s ears, and Jim’s honestly starting to think Spock’s got a bit of a preference for them. He does have a habit of dating humans… at least two in a row, that Jim knows of.

Spock’s fingers trail up his arms and around his shoulders, massaging him back, then sweeping lower. Intent to get in a bit of trouble before they have to go deal with the clusterfuck planetside. Jim’s game for it.

He hates that an abnormally large part of himself feels an ache that grows in magnitude ever more as it becomes apparent that Spock is still avoiding touching his head or face in any capacity. No hair pulling. No holding like he’s something precious. No clutching tight enough to force their edges to break off and coalesce until they fit.

Jim doesn’t know how he’s supposed to pull them together if Spock’s not even going to help, not even going to give hints. No more claiming, taking, evidence that Spock has to feel the same. That it’s not a trick or a mercy or a meaningless indulgence, and Jim’s just another notch for him. Nothing special.

Not that he is special.

Not like Spock. God, he hopes Spock gets over himself and holds him tight again. Soon. He’s desperate for it, more then the cuddling or the sex or even the soft lips. And when did Spock train him to be like this, without even knowing?

Maybe Jim was never drowning. Spock pushes him down and crawls atop him, pulling their lips together and taking his time as Jim runs his hands through that wet dark hair, moans into that hot mouth as Spock touches places Jim can’t imagine anyone ever touching again. It wouldn’t be like this, good as this. Never like this. No, never drowning, he was already gone. The instant he broke that perfectly structured set of Kobayashi Maru code lines, broke into that perfectly planned shell Spock crafted, he fell into the role of slipping into more and more perfect code, jumbling and deleting and destroying until the program and person became something else. But Spock isn’t the fucked up code. Jim is. Jim’s the jumbled symbols burning themselves up and multiplying until it’s expanded through the entire program and Spock’s irreversibly become an inseparable part of him.

 

But it doesn’t go both ways. All Spock has to do is turn off the computer, or write a new program, Jim is obsolete. Covered and merged with Spock like some kind of parasite, Jim’ll probably die without him. And Spock doesn’t even know. How could Spock know?

Jim’s always just been a blip, a momentary setback. Spock’s pushing his fingers into Jim and it’s more than anyone should ever take. It’s warm and wet and Spock made sure there was enough lubrication, but it’s too much because it’s Spock. Looking into his eyes, making his soul ache. Holding his hand down against the bed. Making him cry into that perfect mouth. It’s so good.

It can’t last. It has to. The world ends if this ends. Jim is certain.

Spock moves down and kisses down Jim’s quivering chest, stomach, soft and warm and perfect. Moves farther, engulfs Jim, keeps probing with those perfect fingers -- just two of them, gentle but committed to their aim, pressing into that spot that makes Jim see stars. But he’s already seeing stars, always seeing stars.

This is what love is, Jim thinks.

Spock’s name is the only thing Jim remembers how to say. He was lost a long time ago.

He comes up for air, finally. The stars explode, and Spock kisses him gently as he softens, slides up and kisses Jim’s cheeks and temples -- almost reverent, but Jim knows that can’t be it. Suddenly the sting of tears is overwhelming and Jim’s pulling a Spock move, trying to pause himself and bury it up.

 

This isn’t going to happen. He’s not going to feel that. Not right now. His chest and stomach feel like empty pits, and it’s like a crash after the euphoria of a moment ago and Spock’s eyes squint a bit, maybe concerned, but Jim’s got this. And he rolls in to cuddle against Spock and presses his face into that solid chest, tugs them together. Tries to fuse them physically as if that will fill the sudden gaps that are tearing through him. It helps.

The short lapse of tears end up being mostly happy ones, overwhelmed about how nice this whole thing is. And Spock buys it. At least, he plays it that way. And it’s mostly true, now that Jim’s using every spare moment to tickle Spock despite the fact the guy’s worked up a semi-hard on just getting Jim off.

It’s hilarious, how indignant Spock looks. If Spock slapped him right now, it’d be even funnier, because that’d just complete the scene.

 

“Hey Spock, wanna play a game?” Jim’s smiling easy, and for a handful of seconds irritation slides off Spock’s features in favor of abject bewilderment, before those eyebrows draw downward along with his lips, barely. And oh, Spock is past indignant and into mild outrage. All for Jim.  

He’s still smiling broadly when Spock pins him to the bed, both wrists held just shy of painful, dark eyes pinning him down even as Spock has escaped from the stopped onslaught of tickles. Jim laughs, almost diabolical, as he thrusts up into Spock’s groin and delights in how easily Spock can go from angry to unnerved to angry to too tempted by his own libido to resist engaging Jim. Big mistake.

Spock’s surprisingly easy to trap once his dick gets involved. Thank the universe he can ‘control those impulses’ or else the villains might start seducing Spock weekly to get their way. And. Nope. Jim’s not planning to share.

“Don’t you wanna know what the game is?” Jim’s licking his lips, still rubbing up on Spock, and Spock is a hairsbreadth away from letting out a frustrated moan. Please.

“No.”

“Aww, c’mon.”

Spock’s grip on Jim’s wrists do, in fact, get a tiny bit painful then, and he’s grinding down on Jim now, pushing him into the mattress. Great, Jim is the furniture getting humped. Not exactly the game he had in mind.

Jim kisses Spock’s ear, all soft, slight toothless pull, and Spock stops moving. Curiosity has finally gotten the cat, and all traces of upset wash away, replaced with that cute intrigued deer look Spock gets when he sees something fascinating but possibly trivial. Like a newly discovered star cluster on the sensors.

“You don’t have any game in mind, you are only trying to distract from the fact I found your ministrations unpleasant and you’re too prideful to admit you’re anything less then constantly satisfying.” That look clearly indicates Spock wants to communicate a lot that’s left to be desired from Jim, in his opinion. Well.

Didn’t have to call Jim out like that. “You pinned me to the bed cause you couldn’t handle a little light petting? My mistake baby, only heavy petting from now on.” Jim winks, and Spock looks for the smallest fraction of a second like a bomb about to blow before he smooths into cold calculations. 

Spock shifts both of Jim’s wrists to one hand, and the fact Spock can hold him down like this without even looking the slightest bit strained is beyond frustrating, and then Spock starts fucking licking him. On the chest. On the neck. Tiny tiny little licks. They’re wet. It’s weird. His free hand suddenly sweeps under Jim’s knees -- as they push them up a little, probably just to add to how vulnerable Jim feels already -- and then sweeps up his side and it tingles. Like little static shocks but warmer and longer in duration. And Jim’s twitching, it’s all so weird.

Fuck Spock, it tickles. What a bastard.

 

“Lemme go,” Jim’s not wholeheartedly committed yet, but then he bucks and pulls at his arms and realizes he’s actually fucking pinned proper, this is actually inescapable bullshit, and he actually shouts, in between too loud giggles. And Spock does, to his credit, stop for a moment. But the thoughtful look clearly implies that Spock’s merely intrigued by the flurry of reactions -- laughter, upset, tears, smiling.

“No no no! I know that look! Okay! I get it! Tickling bad! I swear I’ll stop! It was mean anyway! To do that to you right after being all sexy! I’ll be more - What the fuck Spock?!”

Spock’s fucking doing those little kitten licks by Jim’s bellybutton. And oh no. No. That is way too fucking much, too ticklish. This is certified torture, Jim is going to kill him.

“I appreciate your apology. I do hope you mean it. I would most certainly prefer if you were more considerate in the future.” Spock is fucking licking him in between sentences.

“Stop doing that! Please. Please Spock.” It’s the begging that does it. Spock loves begging. It’s almost as effective as grabbing his dick outright. Easier right now, being pinned and all.

Spock almost purrs, not that Jim could confirm the sound with anyone else, and let’s go of Jim’s wrists and flicks Jim’s nipples ‘innocently’ instead. He’s got his head resting on Jim’s stomach still, but he’s looking up, content as you please. He won.

“Oh, fuck you,” Jim mumbles, twitching a few more times belatedly as he moves his arms down.

“Please do.”

Jim really doubts anyone else shacked up with a Vulcan has to deal with this level of sass. This level of unfairly arousing, adorable, perfect sass. It’s like the two of them were specifically born to argue with each other, it's amazing.

He can’t help but smile. 

“I’d love to, but I need you to be able to walk today.”

Spock huffs out a breath, Jim’s almost sure it’s meant to be a laugh, and he almost rolls his eyes - but in the end Spock flutters his eyelids shut instead, utterly done with Jim, probably. It’s quiet for a little while, Jim reaching out and daring to pet Spock’s hair again, hoping acceptance means Spock isn’t too mad at Jim for being overly annoyingly human.

 

Finally Spock’s opening his eyes again, seemingly shifted into the acceptance stage of Jim’s behavior again. “For a moment, I would like to be serious.”

“Aren’t you always?”

Spock could crash starships the way he pierces into things with his gaze sometimes. When he’s being merciless.

“Sorry. Serious. For a sec, I’m being good.”

“I would rarely describe you in that manner,” Spock mutters out before continuing, “Please don’t address me as ‘baby’ again.”

Jim shifts up a little, nods. He can do that. “Got it. Any other nicknames you dislike?”

Spock’s the slightest bit relieved, tension seeping off. “I am not certain at this time. But I… have never particularly found that endearment to be logical or flattering. It… ‘kills the mood’.”

Jim giggles, throws out a “I dunno, anything might work if I’m trying it,” that Spock is a bit excessively annoyed at, which is utterly delightful, then nods again. “Well. Ah. In the interest of fairness, probably best not to throw out ‘James’ while we’re lovemaking either. I’m not particularly fond of it, it’d seem weird in that kinda way.”

When he says it, he thinks it’s actually a great segway to show Spock he’s taking him seriously and also let the subject drop before Spock feels the need to brainstorm every pet name in the book and rate it on merits of use. But after Jim says his piece, he suddenly doubts the logic in speaking at all, because Spock’s eyes are a fraction too wide and his lips are pouted that tiny bit that always happens when Jim’s said something truly profound or utterly indecipherable or when he’s just actually blown Spock’s mind. It’s, ah, not exactly the reaction Jim expected. A bit… excessive. By Spock standards, anyway.

Spock seems to realize he’s showing some sort of reaction, at Jim’s silence, so he turns his head and absently nuzzles down into Jim’s stomach -- probably to give himself time. Unfortunately, tickling Jim a bit again in the process. It’s bearable this time, at least.  


“Can we talk about sex?” Jim throws out, loosely pulling Spock until he’s up to eye level. He feels like cuddling. And feeding into his own curiosity. If Spock’s up for indulging.

That look is back again, or maybe it never left, and it’s clearly now because Jim is asking redundant questions.

“Anyway, like, we should sixty-nine some time. It’d be fun. Have you ever done that?” The look of confusion is not waning at all, actually, and Jim’s edging toward slight worry now. “Spock?”

“What is sixty-nine supposed to signify, exactly? You are being incredibly cryptic. Are you doing this on purpose?” The last bit’s accusatory, and Jim’s laughing before he can help himself. He slips one of his hands into Spock’s and strokes absently.

Thankfully, it’s still somewhat placating to his half-Vulcan. “No, actually I wasn’t, surprisingly,” Spock silently agrees. “You really don’t know what sixty-nineing is?”

“Now you have added an ‘ing’? This does not sound like a tangible thing, Jim,” Spock thinks he’s fucking with him, really. Jim’s actually a little floored, he’d figure, girl or guy, anyone sexually active on a regular basis is going to try it out? Nyota… never tried it out with him? Really?

“No, no it is! It’s when, It’s when I suck you off and you do the same for me. Haven’t you, uh, ever done that before? With someone?” Jim’s literally burning up wanting to know the answer. Is Spock a dominating sex machine or a lying fucking near-virgin. Well maybe not lying... But like, a innocent fucking wall of muscle. Actually naive about something, knowledge lacking. If true, incredibly cute. If not, confusion’s always cute on Spock regardless.  
  
Even when they’re in danger, actually. Which is always a complicated mesh of feelings for Jim.

Spock is still silent and Jim nudges him with his nose, impatient. “Well? Have you ever done that before?”

“Why is that particular sexual arrangement called ‘sixty-nine’ or ‘sixty-nineing’?” Okay, it’s cute, he still sounds baffled. But it’s also slightly aggravating that the man just blatantly dodged a question twice. When he fucking _knows_ Jim is dying to know the answer.

“I’m not going to tell you until you tell me if you’ve ever done it before.”

They’re staring, and staring, and Jim’s not breaking first damn it.

“I don’t… believe so.”

“Oh my god.”

“Jim --”

“I’m not making fun of you! Just. Wow.” Jim’s smiling like a loon, probably, his cheeks hurt so he knows it’s pretty intense. “Really?”

In the silence -- awkward for Spock -- that follows, a sudden idea bubbles up and Jim’s ecstatic.

 

“Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Spock actually tilts his head, bless him. “I’m going to tell you a sex position, and you show me it. So that I know which ones you know. And!” Gotta cover your bases with a guy like Spock, “If you don’t know what it’s supposed to look like, guess. A lot of the names are self explanatory.”

Spock is so very obviously torn between ‘why the fuck would I participate in this endeavor?’ and ‘do you really think I aim to further embarrass myself when I suspect you are taunting my lack of experience?’ but in the end he says neither. Instead, he goes with, “Show you? Are you suggesting we have a sex marathon, now?” And well, of course, he would go with the logical conclusion to target the faults in Jim’s muddled human speech and turn this into a way to taunt Jim.

“Nope,” Jim is not losing his position, not now. He’s still smiling, at ease, he can feel Spock’s forehead crease underneath his fingers, he’s still petting through damp bangs.

If a person could encapsulate the expression of a question mark, it would summarize Spock’s current disposition. Apparently wherever he expected the situation to evolve, he had not foreseen that particular response. He’s like a computer shorting out. Jim leans forward and kisses that confused pout until it melts away.

 

Spock is still terribly out of his depth. It’s exciting. “I meant,” Jim’s saying, stroking his other hand down Spock’s back, somewhat reveling in the simple truth of Spock pliant in his arms, where Jim feels most at ease. “You move around and show me roughly what it’s supposed to look like. You can drag me around if you want, if the position calls for it.” Jim’s smirking, maybe a little. A nice excuse to get man handled.

“Why?” If anything, Spock sounds in awe. He probably finds this whole thing incredulous, like he’s somehow left his body and astral projected into super bizarro land and he’s resigned to exist within it at this point.

“Because it’ll be fun.” Acceptance or not, the quirk of Spock’s eyebrows and severity of his eyes definitely imply that ‘fun’ is not the first descriptor he would have associated with this suggestion. “C’mon,” Jim says gently, lowers his pitch until it comes out a shade sultry, “just a little harmless silliness. For me. I’d love it. Please Spock.”

It takes a moment, but soon enough Spock cracks. “Should… do you expect me to demonstrate a particular partner in the positions?”

Jim tries to parse the meaning of that jumble -- just as messy as a human sentence, a Jim sentence, maybe. “Whatever’s easier. On the upside, this’ll be a learning experience,” Spock’s just shy of scowling and Jim thinks it’s fucking hilarious. “I’m right,” Spock leans forward and bites into Jim’s neck, sharp, soothing it over once Jim gasps in surprise, off his high horse. “But -- ah --” Spock’s not stopping, he just bit another spot under Jim’s ear, “I mean -- at least then -- we’d know what we like more?”

Spock stops sucking his neck long enough to hiss into his ear, “You’re not making sense, Jim. If you want to play, start naming positions.” Then he’s sucking the lobe into his mouth, and Jim’s brain momentarily vacates him.

“Sixty nine!”

Spock is kissing along his jaw, lifts his lips, “I already informed you I do not know what that position entails, precisely.”

“Then guess.” Jim bites down a needy noise. Spock is so good at being painful and sweet all at once. It’s distracting.

But then Spock lifts his head, thoroughly perplexed, and Jim could have bared a bit more distracting. Spock is in problem solve mode. He looks like a glitching computer again, frozen, eyes flicking through an invisible mental map, fingers absently tapping.

“I’ll give you a hint, it’s like the symbol sixty nine, like the actual numbers next to each other.” The hint, it seems, does not particularly help. Spock actually looks worse off, since he’s maybe internally distraught that something so simple could be so perplexing to him. Finally, Spock’s shuffling around over Jim, like he’s planning to give Jim a blow job, scooting down between Jim’s thighs, but he’s still looking utterly baffled. “How…” Spock cuts himself off. Tilts his head, shifts his body again until he’s sitting on Jim’s chest, back to Jim’s face. Then suddenly Spock jerks, and for a second Jim’s got no air before Spock lifts himself up a bit again.

“The numbers, the loops in the numbers are like heads on people,” Spock’s stating, mostly to himself. He’s close to figuring it out, Jim would give it to him at this point to be honest. But apparently Spock’s wholeheartedly in this now. It’s a puzzle and Spock is not about to admit he can’t figure out a puzzle. His sudden determination is inexplicably endearing, and Jim’s fighting to not giggle overtly about all this. Spock scoots himself again until it’s nearly the damn position, but he huffs. “But this can not be comfortable. Is this the position?”

Jim glances down, Spock is looking over his shoulder at Jim, waiting. “Um, mostly. But usually I tend to lay on my side for it, so it’s not quite this awkward. But, yeah, this is the gist.” Spock bodily dumps himself next to Jim then, yanks him, and they’re side by side, heads to crotches, and Jim hears a very small ‘mmm’ of content from down where Spock is. “This does seem like the more enjoyable variant.”

 

Jim can’t stop laughing. Spock seems indifferent to it, apparently pleased in his own way, at present. Right, sometimes silly ideas are good ones.

Maybe Jim will even get Spock to smile. Or laugh for real. Or blush maybe, that’s always nice. Any kind of reaction really is a treat.

“Agreed. Like I said, maybe next time,” Jim curts his head, already kind of excited at the idea. “Okay! Next one… mm. Reverse cowboy.”

Spock’s got the cutest eye squint, and Jim just knows Spock is mentally critiquing whoever came up with that name. Then, confident as you please, Spock’s pushing himself up and throwing Jim down onto his back, climbing on top of him and sitting on his lap. Spock looks down at him for a second, hands on Jim’s chest, heavy and firm. And Jim could swear Spock is smirking down at him, just with his gaze, before Spock swivels around easily, a perfect mock up of the position.

A great view too in Jim’s opinion. He can feel himself getting a little too worked up over this. Spock being rather confident about this sort of stuff is enthralling in equal strength to how endearing it is when he’s naive about it. Jim knows he’s blushing profusely and he cherishes small mercies that Spock’s not looking at him right now.

“You know this one?”

“I’m quite fond of this position.”

That was more then Jim ever thought he’d get to know. Suddenly images of Spock laying on a bed with someone gorgeous bouncing on his lap -- maybe Jim, maybe Uhura, maybe some beautiful Vulcan -- of Spock pushing someone else down like this and climbing on like there’s nowhere he’d rather be. Spock debauched, enjoying it. Maybe someone else coming apart, him calm, just controlling it all.

Spock hums then, and grinds down just barely, and Jim’s been found out. Okay, so maybe hopefully not, but it’s not hard to connect dots. His arousal is not exactly subtle in this position. “Me too.”

“I can tell.” Jerk, cruel cruel bastard. Spock is absolutely merciless. And even when he’s got a guy knocked down.

“Noted. Okay how about another one,” Jim feels as much as sees Spock lift himself up until he’s facing Jim again, looking upsettingly self satisfied.

At least they’re both having fun now. That’s what this whole thing is supposed to be, just them feeling good. No complicated feelings or thoughts or discussions need apply, at base level. Jim’ll keep pretending that anyway, as long as Spock’s buying it.

“Doggy style.”

Spock goes from collected to hilariously appalled instantaneously. The icing on top being the fact he doesn’t even cover it up with a mask of indifference, not even a little. Jim revels in it for a good long while, petting Spock’s thighs, until the expression grow so severe he figures he better intervene.

“What? Don’t know that one?”

“You don’t. You wouldn’t have sex with --” Spock looks horrified. Oh.

“No! No Spock! No!”

“But it sounds --”

“It’s between two people, people! Spock, god. I swear. I promise. Yeesh. No! Of course it’s not --”

“It’s named as if --”

“Well it’s normal stuff between people, humanoids. Really normal.”

“Such a leap of logic is not unjustified given that particular name for it,” Spock is as usual, miffed he guessed wrong, pleased he’s wrong -- cause, honestly, yeah, wow. And being suitably stubborn about how smart and right he usually is and should be assumed as, regardless of blunders… and of course, most importantly, distracting from the fact he has no fucking clue what the sex position actually is. He sure knows how to talk his way around shit.

Jim gives him a look, taste of his own medicine with those severe eyebrows, then pokes Spock in the side, where that green filled heart is beating steadily.

Unruffled and apparently playing misunderstanding, Spock continues to act as if he is musing over human illogic in naming, still not bothering to actually make any kind of guess.

“You’re really obvious, you know.”

Spock is still blatantly ignoring him. Jim’s back to grinning uncontrollably.

His stubborn Spock. What a charming mess.

 

“Well, you gonna guess as to what it is? How it’s done?”  
  
Jim loves being in bed with Spock. He gets away with so much more teasing when they’re… like this. Alone, where Spock seems to humor him without needing to consider it. Where he, maybe, enjoys it without feeling the need for instantaneous self flagellating.

“The name is not ‘self explanatory’,” Spock huffs.

“Yes it is. Kinda. Think about it.” Spock would be frowning if he were anyone else. As it is, he’s slightly tinged green in the ears and cheeks, lips drawn in a tight line. Spock hates not knowing things.

Those perfect lips loosen and part from their strict hold, and Spock’s looking at him silently, pleading for a hint without having to lower his pride enough to actually say that.

But hey, Jim’s a sap for that look. For Spock. His Spock, giving looks just for him.  

He’s in way too deep. This is not going to end well. One day, it is going to end, and Jim is not going to make it. “Well… um, think about how dogs do it?”

Spock looks utterly disgusted, and Jim’s cackling again, and those cheeks blossom darker, a fuller green, and Jim wants to kiss every fleck of color that springs up.

Eventually, Spock starts shuffling, and he’s not sure at all or pushy like last time, he’s utterly embarrassed, Jim knows. And it’s so good, it’s phenomenal, it’s open and vulnerable and everything Jim selfishly wants to see and take and never let anyone else have.

Jim’s a terrible person. Maybe a little. He could save the whole galaxy every week, but that doesn’t change how it’s maybe a little fucked that he gets off whenever Spock’s cracking. Angry, happy, confused, worried -- anything, Jim would take anything. Everything. Things Spock probably isn’t ready to give. Never would want to give.

 

Spock hates being vulnerable. It’s a terrible idea, wanting to see that, know it.

It’s not safe. Not good.

It’s what love is, maybe. Knowing someone. And Spock doesn’t let people know him, not like that. Probably.

Jim is pretty certain about it. This whole thing is fucked. It’s a dance closer and closer until Spock finds him out, notices how much he’s taking, and stops falling for it. If anyone in this universe could keep Jim out, Spock could.

He’s probably better at closing people out then Jim is, and Jim is a heavyweight champ.

Spock’s in reverse cowboy again, sort of, and nervously tapping into Jim’s knees, and Jim ends up giggling so hard they topple over, in a heap, and starts kissing Spock’s cute blushy face until his worries melt off and he’s kissing back. And they forget about the game, too busy being idiots, soft impulsive caresses in the pink lighting, everything literally rosy.

It’s too much. Far far too much.

 

But it feels like it can’t possibly be. Like it can’t be anything other than a law of nature, when Spock kisses over his eyelids, over his jaw, and threads their fingers together. It feels like this is exactly how they were always supposed to be. How they always should be, could be.

Jim knows almost everything ends. That he’s a sap. That falling in love wasn’t something he ever wanted to do, inevitable though it was. Then, that trying to do something about it was probably the worst decision he could have made. He knows how these things go.

Everything ends. This will end.

But it’s so good, right now.   

Jim thinks, Spock is probably happy too, right now, holding his hands. And for a while Jim can’t remember what it’s like to worry, he’s too happy, because everything is okay. Spock is okay.

Good.  

 

**______________________**

 

A small group of Neraidians came out of a Hole in Space twenty two days ago, right above one of the new Vulcan colonies. There was promptly some sort of scuttle, and one of the Neraidians somehow thoroughly seduced a Vulcan diplomat in zero time flat, and then within days reinforcements came through another, suspiciously placed Hole in Space that suddenly fucking appeared too.

They said they possessed ‘magic’, and despite appearing to be similarly matched to the Federation’s capabilities, the Neraidians claimed they could benefit from an exchange of technologies -- magical aid to the Vulcans in exchange for technology. Then Starfleet came investigating, because after the last few incidents, random space ships just suddenly showing up aren’t exactly treated as casual events.

Truly alien, Neraidians claimed to be from a completely different universe, and found humans unnervingly familiar -- even though the Federation didn’t have Neraidians on record as previously contacted. They’d claimed in their own universe there were humanoids, but the humans there “weren’t very smart, not like you people. Not like Vulcans.”

Apparently they valued intelligence. Also, they wanted something. Aid. They kept spewing that word like a spray of bullets -- over and over, claiming somehow they could help the Vulcans rebuild. Then switching tactics and telling the Federation a similar line, once they realized Vulcans didn’t actually have enough numbers or resources to call the shots alone.

Magic. Jim had heard mysterious aliens spew that kind of bullshit a few times before -- usually, it wasn’t really ‘magic’ at all. Just some advanced lifeform kind of power, or technology beyond galaxy wide norm, and it usually turned out pretty fucked. A guy had claimed to be Apollo, once, _the_ fucking greek god Apollo. He wasn’t actually a _god_ , of course. Just one more person with a superiority complex.

Jim overheard one of the Neraidians, their Ambassador, actually (apparently the one who’d managed to charm the Vulcan diplomat into helping them out of some carnal obligation), telling said seduced Vulcan (by the name of Sylon), that “Magic has rules it must abide by, just like anything else.” And damn if that didn’t sound like some kind of physics, like rules governing matter, light, reality. Whatever the fuck the aliens were harnessing, it wasn’t impossible shit, they were just being dodgy about how it worked.

They kept offering to show the Federation representatives how to ‘utilize magic’ in some various specific ways, although they weren’t actually elaborating on how or how much and were refusing further divulging until the Federation swore to let them in honorarily, so that Starfleet could technically approve an exchange of help.

 

So here Jim was, in this clusterfuck of a drawn out diplomatic standstill, and Jim fucking hated these kind of missions. Admiral Pike on board too, representing Starfleet interests and military might. Should these people prove to be hostile -- and it could very well pan out that way, which was why the Enterprise was here, to make sure the best ship was there to tear these fuckers a new one if that’s what it came down to.

With how vague the aliens were being, and how fast they were trying to bargain and bait, whatever shit they’re really after, they might well attempt to kill for if things stop going in their favor. That behavior would definitely rule them out as potential Federation allies.

The Neraidians went back through another Hole in Space -- apparently they could generate them artificially, and how weird is that? And within hours returned in a structured congregation of three dozen to attempt to bargain. The aliens had flown their ship to a nearby Federation colony establishment, the Enterprise escorting them -- Starfleet scientists comprised the lone major outpost on the planet. A few Vulcan diplomats made the journey as well, still desperate to barter for help anywhere they could quickly get it at this point, and unwilling to let the opportunity slip, regardless of the obvious risk factor.

 

Apparently, Neraidians needed to build infrastructure to keep ripping those holes open. Something to do with the ‘magic’ behind it. ‘Looking glasses’, they’d called the holes. They wanted to build a permanent one on the planet.

Starfleet supervised, and damn was it a sight. The alien decked out in green -- the only one in the whole group wearing green -- had walked into the middle of a very barren spot of land, promptly flown into the air and opened his mouth to _sing_. Then the ground had caved in like a crater impact site, and skyscraper sized chunks had levitated up like feathers and melted into liquid rock, and spun around and around until they reshaped around the guy into three huge spherical buildings, with long pillars forming and rising them up from the ground. Finally the singing had stopped, and the guy had flown back over -- these creatures had insecty wings-- and addressed his two obvious military command people that had been brought along. They’d spoken in harsh business tones in their foreign tongue.  Within minutes the alien base became fully intact, a mile from the only other fucking infrastructure on this planet.

And Pike had noted, arms crossed and false levity in his tone, “Well if they can pull stuff like that off, maybe they’re worth the help.”

Jim felt his hackles go up at the display. Danger sensors wouldn’t stop blaring in his head.

Spock was of a similar mindset, apparently greatly distressed -- hiding it well, of course -- over the fact the Neraidians had a number of extremely powerful telepathic telekinetics, and how easy it would be for them to just brainwash the humans here, probably, if it came to it.

Neraidians, notably, were equally weary of the fact Vulcans could read minds as well. Obviously keeping some fucking big secrets, harboring some major fucking distrust, the aliens refused to go anywhere near the Vulcan diplomats without their own Neraidian telepathic escort. With the sole exception being the singing Ambassador, who seemed indifferent either way.

 

Currently, in this prolonged diplomatic agony, they were at a makeshift banquet in the science colony compound. The Neraidians own building was apparently not finished -- which sounded to Jim a whole lot like they were keeping in line with the secrecy habit of hiding as much as possible.

Spock was in that silky blue formal shirt, and Jim loved that shirt. Bones was eyeing everything like it might fucking kill him, because Bones was his friend and like Jim could sense the danger implicit in the air, so Bones could too.

Nyota was attempting to engage with the Neraidian ambassador, with bizarre success.

 

They were dancing across the middle of the room, and both singing lightly, adding to the musical accompaniment, and it felt like the room was growing warm -- like everyone was forcibly infused with a few glasses of champagne through the sound alone. They both swayed together and glided around like professionals, and the sight of it was captivating every living thing present. Nyota looked, worryingly, smitten, her head against the alien’s shoulder with a look of easy familiarity.

Maybe her type was aliens. There’s a concept. Gaila… Spock… the Neraidian… the idea had merit. Maybe that’s why she never went for Jim. Not even a little.

 

The Neraidians looked suspiciously like… fairies. Like, with the buggy wings and pointy ears and totally mystic look. Not entirely, but then, fairy appearance varied wildly in Earth mythologies anyway. But enough experience with weird shit has taught Jim, if it looks like something familiar, there might be a reason -- some kind of thread of truth to pay attention to. It tended to help the success rate of the missions.

Nyota’s dance partner was startling at just over six feet in height, though a lot of the Neraidians got as short as around four feet. He looked ridiculously pretty up against human feminine ideals, lovely as Nyota as they glided. He went by masculine pronouns -- through some kind of translation magic the Neraidians did, so that their language would somehow sound like the native language of the person listening. Some of them also had actual fluency in English and Mandarin. However, the Ambassador and one of the General looking leaders talked in weird clicks and intones every so often -- their ‘magic’ conveniently didn’t translate _that_ language.

Speaking of that shady General, decked out in dark red and black -- only two of the Neraidians were dressed in robes that color. Red apparently was the color of the grunts that seemed to have exponentially excessive physical strength (they said it was part of magic unique to individual types), but this guy wasn’t a grunt. He was a snake. Slithering up next to Christopher Pike and smiling and speaking in light tones, touching a little too comfortably. Jim could recognize flirting when he saw it.

The General was daring Pike to try a black inky alcohol the Neraidians had brought from their home world, claiming that a human’s tolerance just couldn’t compete. Being stupid, Chris was taking a shot, and immediately so influenced he looked like he’d slammed down three Long Islands. Then he was smiling back at the alien, and they were veering off into a corner, still chatting amicably about the negotiations, about Starfleet’s current opinion of the ambiguous strangers. And Pike, somehow, was maintaining enough competence to still remember what he should and shouldn’t give away to a, though obviously attractive, potential enemy.

 

Jim picked up some more bread from the side table piled high in food, and nudged Spock with his elbow, head pointing over to the Admiral’s risky engagement of the night. Half amused, half appalled.

But Spock didn’t say anything, and Jim followed Spock’s locked eyes over to Nyota and the Ambassador, still twirling magnificently around the room. If Jim didn’t know any better, he’d attribute the tense line of Spock’s shoulder and the rigid way he held his jaw to jealousy.

Fairies really fucking liked to party, this marked the third official banquet ball type thing held so far, since the Enterprise had arrived to monitor the situation.

Spock’s eyes were laser locked on Nyota and the Ambassador’s interlocked hands as they pulled intimately close and then fell back, intricate movements in time with the beat. Another moment where Jim thinks, really, he has to know better, surely Spock isn’t -- Spock’s eyes dart over to one of the few Vulcan diplomats congregated along the side of the room, and then everything makes sense again. Oh.

That guy, Sylon, the one who totally fucked a fairy, _he’s_ jealous. And that’s kind of shocking in itself, seeing a full blooded Vulcan actually showing physical signs of the emotion burning underneath… Jim’s never seen that kind of leak from any Vulcan except Spock. Not that he ever gets much of a chance to interact, with other Vulcans, especially nowadays.

Sylon must _have it bad_. Must be head over heels, fucked into brainwashed bliss. Maybe he’s literally brainwashed, soul-stealed, and that’s why he’s been so intently helping along the Neraidians and vouching for them, making startlingly logical points that made quite the impact with Federation decision makers. Jim wasn’t sure why the fuck the other Vulcans went with it though… they must be incredibly desperate for help. And. Oh.

Spock is gone from his side and Jim’s following in the direction of his body before he even consciously decides to do so.

 

The second Jim is next to Spock, both of the Vulcans straighten even more, impossibly, and Jim knows they’re hyper aware he’s present, both meticulously focused on him even though they’re still maintaining a separate discussion between each other. Jim also notes that Sylon looks particularly robotic now that Spock’s near him, any trace of emotion completely wiped -- although he still looks wound tight as a screw. Maybe he doesn’t want to look the slightest bit emotionally incompetent in contrast to a half human. Who is, as usual, composed as ever. Spock isn’t even tense anymore, now he’s regulating his concern so it’s thoroughly concealed, even to Jim’s keen perception.

But surely Spock is concerned. About something. He wouldn’t have zeroed in on this micro-situation if he wasn’t doing damage control of some kind.

“That is one prevalent school of thought among the colonies,” Sylon is saying.

“Are they still --”

“Yes, unfortunately, the after effects are still commonplace. My healer suspects we were so susceptible to the Neraidian’s _magic_ because our shields are still so fragile.”

“I am hopeful my heritage” -- the guy, Sylon, doesn’t bat an eye at Spock mentioning his human side, but Jim almost does, because Spock is usually avoidant about it around his father’s species. “will spare me the full brunt of the effects currently plaguing our people.”

Sylon, courteously, nods his agreement. He’s a lot harder to read then Spock generally is -- although Spock’s actually more stone cold then Sylon at the moment -- ever since he shrugged off the blatant displays of anger from earlier. But somehow Sylon’s eyes seem to convey that he is indeed sharing the hope that Spock is lucky enough to be spared… whatever they’re talking about.

“I presume the other prevailing school of thought, currently, is embracing isolationism?”

“Most groups are favoring isolationism, overall. However, some believe we should seek allies regardless of who they align with, because the Federation has failed us.” Jim almost gawps at that, they fucking _tried_. But then, trying really doesn’t make a difference in the end. Only outcomes do. Spock doesn’t need to be hearing this kind of bullshit, it’ll fuck him up.  But Jim can’t really think of a logical, not-emotionally-obvious-and-therefore-embarrassing-to-Spock, way to shut down the conversation. Plus, Spock might still be executing whatever plan drove him to come over and talk in the first place. “There is… a certain logic in assuming that if we had been more proactive about our own safety, it could have been avoided.”

Spock and Sylon are saying something without words as they look at each other, but Jim doesn’t know enough to figure out what.  

 

“Some acknowledge the merit of your conduct. If more Vulcans had embraced necessary aggression, as you had…” Sylon and Spock are both mannequins, but their emotions still run deep and broken and they’re both obviously in pain over the losses hanging forever onto them. “You acted most logically. To strengthen now, I am of the belief more of us must embrace altered, improved, ideas of what should be acceptable.”

“So you agree with the groups that wish to incorporate Romulan ideals?”

“That is not a fully accurate descriptor of our goals. Though it may make us appear less dissimilar, should we begin to act more on instincts when making security judgements.  While arguably more susceptible to emotional compromise then purely fact based deductions and actions, ultimately being able to immediately protect Vulcans when a situation is unclear is a necessary trait to hone and adopt if our people are to survive and become self reliant again. The rationale to make certain exceptions to Surakian principles is sound, and necessary for the continuation of our species.”

“That is one belief. I have heard other groups argue that to abandon strict adherence to the teachings of Surak is to lose who we are as a people. Once that is lost, they argue, then those that sought to destroy us will have wholly succeeded.”

“There is a certain illogic in wishing to prevent change that is necessary for progress, in favor of holding onto flawed ideas simply because they are more traditional and familiar. It is foolish to favor old ideas simply because they have been around for a greater period of time, while ignoring all the facts that illuminate flaws in retaining such strict adherence to those ideas.”

“Perhaps. You cannot deny that adopting the practice of strict rationality was salvation for primitive Vulcans who, before, were destroying themselves.”  

“Logic served us then. Tremendous change saved us then. The same things likely will help us improve now. It is logical to alter our behavior to a mode that will serve us better in the future. It is logical to allow for change and growth, instead of fighting for us to remain the same when it is obvious that our strictly Surakian disposition is what left Vulcan so vulnerable.”

“It is possible to justify both adapting, or preserving, the core of our methods. Both objectives are rational, given what transpired.”

“... That is the problem, at present. There are so many conflicting ideas on how to move forward, from this, all of them logical, in their own way. Also, so many are still reeling, it is impossible to know whose judgements are compromised and whose remain clear. It makes deciding how to proceed arduous. The leadership will not be effective until a majority consensus is reached, and proven to be uninfluenced by emotional motivations.”

“I… see.” Spock is left with the fact that he, like Sylon, doesn’t have any answers on how to protect or help what’s left of the Vulcans. Not a perfect answer, there isn’t one. They know that. It probably kills them, knowing no amount of logic can solve this. Not this. Not the terrifying unsure unknown.

The Neraidian Ambassador strolls over right as the words leave Spock’s mouth though, and spares Spock the misery of having to keep contemplating such unfortunate things. Immediately, the alien’s fingers weave into Sylon’s, and Spock actually blushes a little bit and looks suddenly away at an empty space on the dance floor.

Sylon’s still absolutely robotic, but somehow he seems… gentler now. And the Vulcan’s free hand fists up, probably unintentionally. Once again he’s betraying his ability to feel. He looks vaguely like he wants nothing more than to blush too in commiseration, but he keeps his response in check. Appearing too gratified by the Ambassador’s presence to actually bother caring about Vulcan display expectations. “Celest, have you met Commander Spock and Captain Kirk?” He says, voice just as monotonous as it had been through the whole previous conversation.

The Ambassador looks over to them, smiles politely, and seems kind of awkward about the handholding actually -- even though he’s not a Vulcan, and these Neraidians are actually a pretty handsy sort overall. But doesn’t remove it, and Jim thinks maybe it’s calming Sylon down somehow. Like how it calms Spock down, in private, when Jim does that. “Yes. Captain. Commander,” the Ambassador, Celest, acknowledges.

Sylon seems incredibly different with Celest beside him, and Jim can’t quite get a grip on why, but he is. He just knows it reminds him of how Spock will be supposedly King Asshole when Jim’s off captured on some planet and Spock’s in charge of the ship, and when Jim inevitably gets back, Spock’s always perfectly professional but something melts the second they see each other. Jim sees the change, every single time he comes back to the Enterprise from a messy scrape. The rest of the Enterprise crew would probably get it, understand. Sylon looks like that.

“We were just discussing various opinions on reconstruction among Vulcans. I was informing the Commander of my perspective, and how it shares similarities with Neraidian views.”

 

______________

  


The ball is still going on, apparently, Neraidians make a habit of partying well past two hundred hours. Two of the Vulcans actually got drunk too, and it was fucking fantastic -- one of them climbed onto a table and knocked over several wine glasses, and then promptly swooned in abject horror of their own actions. A very considerate human had half dragged them out of the room after that.

The other Vulcan had, well, really committed. The drink of choice that’d fucked her, and her cohort, into extensive inebriation, was in fact that black ink stuff Pike had tried at the beginning of the evening. Apparently it was so potent, Vulcan metabolisms didn’t make a difference.

Jim did not get the pleasure of seeing Spock drunk, tonight. He’d considered it, but not seriously. This was work, this was duty, and both of them really couldn’t afford to play around when their job was to keep everyone safe. When their job was to stay alert and investigate exactly what these aliens really want, make sure they don’t break any laws trying to get it.

Apparently, Jim had learned during their time chatting with Sylon and Celest, fairies considered murder perfectly acceptable as a means to any particular end. Especially if any higher up gave the order. Capital punishment was still fully enforced in Neraidian culture, even for minor crimes.

 

It was quiet, hallways echoing, as Spock and Jim made their way to the transporter room so they could beam back up to the Enterprise. Back to home.

They could hear the muffled sounds of conversation up ahead, saw Christopher Pike and that General awfully, grossly, close, and Jim let himself stop walking to keep some distance -- Spock halting beside him -- as the transporter technician beamed those two up. Once they were gone, he and Spock resumed.

“You think that’s Pike’s type?” Jim asked, absentmindedly, then moved to the transporter as he gave the girl manning the controls the order “Please wait two minutes before you activate it. I don’t wanna run into _that_ again tonight.” She giggled and gave a nod as Spock stepped up beside him. “Feminine guys?” He raised an eyebrow at Spock.

Spock was tired, they both were. Maybe in Jim’s case, even more tired, because he didn’t get to have fun and they’d had to play negotiator and spy and Admiral Pike was probably being compromised right this second and -- gross, don’t go there. Don’t. Well, not gross, but. Still. No.

“Is that your type?” Jim said suddenly, perking up at the thought. “Just like, people who are kinda feminine and kinda not, like, a little of both? Cause like, Uhura’s pretty masculine… she’s real bossy.”

“Leadership is not an exclusively masculine trait, it is a universal quality.”

“I know that. I just mean. You know what I mean.” Spock’s giving him that slightly amused, exasperated, look. Like he always does when Jim’s being kind of emotional and bizarre. Spock thinks it’s cute when Jim does that -- Jim knows, he’s starting to realize that look always includes little smile creases near Spock’s eyes. “I mean, I’m a pretty feminine guy?”

Spock raises both his eyebrows, Jim knows he’s anticipating how much he’ll enjoy listening to Jim argue something that’s pointless either way. They like to argue for fun, half the time they’re just being difficult for the sake of it. Jim couldn’t ask for a better companion. “Well you know, I’m…” Spock’s full attention is making Jim irrationally nervous. “I like… I’m soft.”

“Soft.” _That is not an inherently feminine trait, Jim_ , Spock doesn’t say.

“I like flowers. And eyeshadow. And --” Jim had been trying to sound incoherent just because it pisses off Spock, and Spock’s adorable when he’s annoyed. But now he’s kind of annoyed himself, because hey, he is kind of feminine, and he likes that particular fact about himself. It’s kind of hard to put into words, though. Still, Spock doesn’t get to act like he’s wrong just because he’s bad at explaining his thoughts in perfectly supported essay format. “I’m flirty, I totally flirt like Uhura…  but -- that’s kind of a bad example, actually.”

“You flirt nothing like Nyota.” The girl at the controls is staring at them curiously.

Jim smiles, resists the urge to push Spock playfully, because they’re gonna get dematerialized any second now, so he should stay still. “And how did she flirt with you, Spock?”

Spock has his mouth sealed shut like the conversation is over, like Jim wasn’t just running his mouth. They beam up, home.

 

___________________________

  


Nyota left the party after that enchanting dance. The captain had slipped over to her and asked if she could monitor the security feeds from the past few days, Christine had claimed to have seen some Neraidians on board and she hadn’t been sure if the visits had been supervised. It was entirely possible that Chapel had only seen that one man, the one weirdly stuck to Admiral Pike like glue, but a possible breach was still worth investigating.

Besides, she’d felt herself oddly affected by the singing of the Ambassador against her ears, and she needed time to clear her head.

It had been like a siren song. She’d felt instantly mentally void. Safe and trusting despite all her instincts going in fully aware of the dangers, like her own will had vacated her. It had been pleasant in the moment and as soon as she’d spoken to the Captain a cold wash of sense had come back to her and she’d felt utterly breached. Magic or not, whatever these people could do was powerful, and they definitely couldn’t afford to let their guard down.

Even with her guard up, Nyota had been effectively helpless. It was... troubling. More then that.

 

Sitting in the familiar expanse of the Enterprise, consoles surrounding her, was grounding. As she’d expected, the first violation she’d found of a Neraidian trespassing had been the General who kept pining after their Admiral. But since Pike had intercepted him before he could go anywhere explicitly off-limits to guests, it wasn’t something the Federation could exactly deny cooperation over. She made note of it, and continued.

The next peculiar thing she found was a video feed of the Neraidian Ambassador wandering around the ship alone, from the day before -- right after he’d raised up the Neraidian base. Nyota had remembered the Neraidian officers ordering the Ambassador to be taken to the science colony to recuperate. Apparently, he had taken an extensive secret detour first.

The Ambassador had succinctly navigated himself to Engineering and to the store of dilithium crystals. He hadn’t touched them, or done anything, just observed. As long as possible. When some staff had entered the room, he’d slipped quietly -- remarkably good at sneaking -- to a secluded terminal and typed in ‘dilithium crystals’ as if to read up on the subject. But the computers had denied him access, thankfully, probably due to some failsafe Kirk or Spock had already set up in case of this kind of eventuality.  Then he’d slipped out, and on the feed, at fourteen hundred thirty seven, Uhura noticed him pass by the sick bay as Christine was passing through the doorway.

 

Hours later, and Nyota is still scanning through video feeds played at increased speed. Work is familiar and soothing right now and she isn’t particularly inclined to stop yet. Not after tonight. The feeling of happiness that wasn’t all from her bubbling up and consuming as if it were, as if it did belong to her, foreign but accepted until she was stuck with it. The remnants of it was still freaking her out a little -- that she could lose herself so totally, so easily, that she couldn’t even tell what was her and what was something someone else was making her into.

There were few things scarier than ceasing to be yourself. Than letting it happen, not even knowing it’s happening, not even having a chance to fight it.  

Spock had done that to her once. Accidentally, she thinks. It had still been. An experience. One Nyota did not think she’d ever be subject to again.

And yet.

This is what she signed up for though, going into the unknown. All the great experiences, adventures, inevitably had to come with her worst fears coming to confront her. It was simply the nature of her line of work. She could bravely face it, she was made for this kind of life. Living out anything, seeing everything, reaching into the stars and going past them.

Doesn’t mean she had to always like it, her chosen destiny.

 

She doesn’t know what time it starts happening, but eventually she can hear crew members bumbling in the halls in small groups, voices hushed and steps muffled, as they trickle in from the party below, too done in to continue. Apparently, Vulcans and Neraidians can go for longer without sleep. Although one crew member, a yeoman, peeks into the room Nyota is working in, and tells her “Those science officers are deprived! I saw an orgy on the way to the transporter…” Her face constricts like she’s eaten something sour. “I think. They must not get time off work much.” Then the girl wanders off, perplexed and sleepy.

Christine comes to visit, in a moment when the halls are empty and Nyota can’t hear small drunken groups stumbling to bed, and asks “Did they cause any damage?” about the intruder.

Nyota shakes her head, and Christine smiles, glad that she hadn’t inadvertently jeopardized the Enterprise by not confronting the intruder in the moment.

“You didn’t have to work tonight, you know. I heard there was a party planetside. Did you go?” She leans against the wall, taking in the mass of data pads beside Uhura’s hands where there’s numerous timestamps scrawled down, with little theories below each one.

“Yeah. It was fun.”

Christine looks like she isn’t so sure about the truth of what Nyota’s saying. Which, that’s fair. Nyota is kind of obfuscating. It’s just easier, coping. When she can just forget the parts she doesn’t like, lock them in a box and walk away and move on with her life, lessons learned and done with what’s past.

Too nosey, just a little. Every medical officer in their crew is. Chapel is no exception, biting her lip and staring down at Uhura like she wants to psychoanalyse and make her like, divulge, or something.

But Nyota knows she’s giving off a certain look, the kind of steel that makes klingons stop in their tracks and scurry for cover, so Christine doesn’t push it.

“Want company?”

Nyota shrugs, glances around at the mass of monitors around her. “It’ll be boring.”

“I’ll have a chance to catch up on my reading.” Chapel lifts the data pad in her hand, Nyota hadn’t even noticed it. How late must it be? “Unless -- you want me to help?” The nurse gestures noncommittally toward the screens, voice willing but body hesitant, and Nyota lets her off the hook.

“No. Just company’s fine.” She swivels back around, hands going back to the controls, sees Chapel pull a chair up beside her, then Nyota turns her gaze back on the screens.

The loss of self is still too fresh. She couldn’t fall asleep if she tried, right now, probably for hours from now. She just has to burn it off. Until her feelings settle and she really, utterly, believes there’s no one else’s in there influencing anymore. Presently, she can’t even comprehend feeling that sure. Fear crawls like slime through her skin every time she thinks about how much she’d lost herself tonight.

 

It’s nice, the company.

 

Christine isn’t bothered. Christine thinks Nyota is herself, not anybody else. That is a small comfort.

 

______________  


 

Thankfully, when Jim and Spock rematerialize, Christopher Pike and his guest -- who really should not be fucking allowed on the ship at all, but he can’t exactly argue against an Admiral -- are long gone.

They’ve probably got their tongues shoved down each other’s throats, hopefully no espionage is going to even have a chance to occur. Soon enough it will be o-eight hundred, and they’ll need to regroup on the planet again, including the Neraidian General, and the opportunity will be passed.

Spock steps off the transporter pad, and Jim follows, taking a chance to openly stare at that ass now that they’re safe and sound back home and not surrounded by coworkers and enemies-to-be.

No reason the whole world should be getting some, and not _Jim_.

Jim rushes forward and wraps his arms around Spock, hugging him from behind. They’re alone. Spock is still making his way over to the transporter controls, checking them momentarily, letting Jim stay latched on the whole way.

Then Spock spins them, and god it’s delicious, Jim getting swiveled until he’s facing that perfect face, Spock’s hips pinning him against the console. Spock in his arms. That’s always nice.

“So, I think we deserve a break, Spock.”

“Mmm,” Spock’s saying, already unbuttoning the collar of Jim’s formal shirt and pulling the fabric down enough to bite satisfyingly into Jim’s neck.

Then Spock’s pulling back, already, and that sucks. But still, Spock in his in his arms.

Doesn’t make the distance, the few inches between them, any less intolerable.  


“Spock…” Jim’s surging forward, right up until they’re nose to nose, then stops. Maybe he’s being a little needy. Spock is smiling with his eyes -- he loves it when Jim begs. Jerk. Jim smacks him, no force, against the chest, and Spock would laugh out loud, but he’s _Spock_ , so he just laughs on the inside. “Can you believe Pike is worse than us?”

“If he becomes compromised, then my judgement in people apparently is severely flawed.”

“You trying to say something about me, Spock?” Jim thinks, maybe, Spock loves hearing his name come out of Jim’s mouth. Whenever Jim says his name a lot, Spock tends to interpret Jim as being flirtatious. Which, good. Finally. A way to tell if the message is getting through.

Spock is still smiling with his eyes, but his body is drawing away toward the door, and Jim’s distraught. A bit.

But maybe they should get to their cabin so they can get to heavy petting already. Jim hates restraint on Spock, it’s not a great look -- maybe a good look cause everything looks good on Spock, but not the _best_ look.

The best look is Spock totally torn apart against him, for him.    


“Do you think that fairy has the Vulcan under a spell?” Jim says casually, forcing his preemptive excitement down, because that’s coming anyway, no need to rush. Switches gears back to business, since they could keep working until their clothes come off, technically.

A Captain and a first officer technically never stop working. But whatever. Details.

“No.” Spock’s tone is equally light. It’s also certain.

“No? But didn’t you see how charmed he was?”

Spock almost, almost smiles at him, lips twitching at the side, hand at the control panel of the door.

“You can’t honestly think there’s nothing fishy going on.”

Spock does like to be difficult. Jim thinks it’s his way of flirting back maybe. So Spock doesn’t lie… he sure does like to dance around the truth though, if it’ll make Jim squirm.

“Sylon was affected by the singer initially, upon first contact,” Spock concedes. Except he doesn’t, “However… he has been…. bonded, to resolve the issue. His reactions right now are quite natural, for a romantically attached Vulcan. He is not being manipulated to feel such affection, so far as I can tell.”  

Jim’s gaping, wide and unabashed because they’re alone and no one’s judging Jim anymore -- no one who matters -- and he can’t believe this. “You’re saying you think he just fell… in love with the guy? Overnight?”

“Their bond would have taken at least six days to be firmly established --”

“As far as you can tell?” Jim’s holding Spock’s arm and shaking it. Because he’s being himself. And it’s always great to touch Spock. “... So do you think the Neraidians are using him…. or nah, then?”

Spock considers his answer before speaking. “Sylon seems… to be of a very revolutionary mindset. I believe some of his companions are of similar mind, and that is why they have continued to allow this despite the obvious violent tendencies present in the Neraida species. Traditionally, Vulcans would have avoided negotiation with such blatantly dangerous groups.

I was initially shocked and I could not… understand, why the Neraidians were being tolerated. After tonight I realize it is because Sylon is not alone in his beliefs. I think the Vulcan diplomats are fully aware that they might be manipulated. But they have decided it is worth the risk. If the Neraidians can provide what they imply -- perhaps whole city scapes built without expending resources to mine and transport, perhaps even more efficiency through magic then that. Other things, that the Neraidian Ambassador has perhaps whispered in Sylon’s ear.”

They’re in each other’s space again, both next to the door way and kind of too stuck in each other’s gravity to move. Except closer toward each other. Always closer. “So, he might be getting played, but he’s aware of it. They’re letting it happen.”

“That is how it appears.”  


Jim doesn’t want to talk shop. He wants to kiss Spock. Drown in him. “Idiots.” He grabs Spock’s hips roughly, and Spock lets him, and that’s all the response Jim needs.

“Not every Vulcan is particularly intelligent.” Spock’s hands are fiddling with the controls, locking the door shut.

“I suppose you think you’re one of the smart ones?”

“Obviously,” Spock is biting Jim’s lower lip.

Jim lets his arms tighten around Spock until the two of them are pressed tight again, Spock’s ass in his hands, and Jim’s groping blindly and slipping his hands into those tight pants and ghosting warm skin with his fingertips.

Spock’s got a hand in his hair, yanking his head to the side -- Spock’s always yanking. Jim always thought he’d be a lot gentler than this. Doesn’t matter, ultimately. Reality is better. And Spock’s kissing and sucking under his ear, then sucking the curve of his ear against those plush perfect lips and laving his tongue against it.

Jim’s already moaning, loud and obnoxious and it’s good Spock locked the door. Using the final reserves of his brain, while he’s still attached to it, Jim drags them bodily over to the transporter controls and looks down long enough to adjust the settings, making sure no one can get up until they’re done here.

All at once Spock’s pinning Jim to the ledge of it, grinding their bodies together, pulling back his mouth enough to growl. “What do you want, Jim?”

“You.”

Spock’s letting Jim rake his hands over Spock’s back, ass, sides -- over across Spock’s heart, under that silk shirt that Jim’s been pulling unbuttoned starting from the bottom. -- through Spock’s own hair, much softer than Spock is ever like when he does it to Jim.

The answer is always Spock.

 

“What do you want me to do to you?” Spock calmly breathes out, voice crisp and hard and loud next to Jim’s ear and he knows he’s already begging. Rutting against Spock and tilting his head to give him whatever access he wants, open and ready and so so fucking willing.

He’s moaning again, and he’s petting Spock’s stomach ridiculously sweetly in contrast to the heat surging across him and through him like he’s a star being born.

Spock lets him keep making a fool of himself, keeps licking and kissing his ear and neck like it’s going to go out of style. Then finally Jim’s annoyed and pulling Spock off so he can kiss Spock on the lips. And Spock’s holding his head in place and Jim groans at the fact Spock’s not letting them make the fuck out right now.

“What the fuck?” Jim grunts out, pushing his thigh between Spock’s and rutting, hoping if he makes Spock hot and bothered enough, he’ll show some mercy.

“What do you want,” one of Spock’s hands slips from his hair, ghosts over his temple and lightly presses to his cheek for a single moment, “specifically, Jim?”

“Whatever you want,” Jim pants, leaning into the touch even as it slips to the back of his skull again, and Jim buries his head into Spock’s shoulder instead. “Whatever you want. Anything. Whatever you want.”

Spock’s pulling away and Jim tries to latch on but Spock’s insistently retreating, and Jim’s losing his goddamn mind.

He’s not about to give up.

Though the look in Spock’s eyes says he’s probably expected to. Spock’s perfect hands slide, firm and warm, against Jim’s hips and tug him toward the door. Jim leans forward into Spock’s side, and lets Spock open the door.

“Wait.” In a moment of clarity Jim quickly goes to the transporter controls and fixes them, then returns to his spot against Spock’s heartbeat -- pounding incessantly. “Okay.”

Spock latches his fingers around the skin of Jim’s wrist and leads him off to bed.  


 


	4. You're not a bad guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jim’s faith in Spock is without reserve, and it is utterly undeserved."
> 
> Or, literally: Jim and Spock both try to communicate through a lot of twisted guilt, flirt, and discuss potential threesomes. Meanwhile, bubbling underneath everything, a lot of things are approaching a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is in a way the calm before the storm. Spock and Jim can't stay in limbo forever, neither can the Vulcans or the Neraidians. So it's likely that the next chapter will be somewhat more action driven. 
> 
> I also wanted to inform anyone that's been keeping up with this story, I might eventually be changing the title to "Trying to get ever closer" so look out for that. That's the title I initially used, before I tried too hard, and it's still the one I use for drafts. It probably won't be changed until the story is complete. 
> 
> Quotes that inspired the writing: 
> 
> "Fell into you like the sea. You broke my fall, and you pulled me deep.  
> I think that you should know this uncertainty has got me restless, counting myself to sleep.  
> Feel your heart beating, the rhythm is like no other.  
> And when the skies are grey, we’ll paint the night together.” - Technicolor by Sainte
> 
> This chapter references the TOS episodes The Evil Within and Mirror Mirror, and the movies The Wrath of Khan and Search for Spock.

They are having an argument. This has been a common occurrence, as of late. It’s baffling, and even more surprising is how welcoming they both are of the frequency. But then, there’s always a gentle thread through the discord, a smile when there should not be one if only the context of the words were all that was being acknowledged. Glances filled with such openness that there is no pain intended or interpreted, as the tempo increases.

They are discussing who is worse at acknowledging and handling their feelings.

 

Spock has already conceded that Jim, as a human, and as someone who’s demonstrated the ability to overtly, while performing his captain’s duties, is marginally better. But for no necessary reason at all, Jim is ‘beating the point to death’. Or something. Spock finds it amusing, so he has let it continue, as he often does once Jim gets going into one of his more wasteful seeming proclivities.

“I mean, on a scale of emotional stuntedness, I’m here,” Jim holds up a hand horizontally in front of himself, parallel to the ground, “And you’re here,” Jim puts his other hand about thirty centimeters above the first one.

“Am I to presume that is a human scale of emotional awareness?”

Jim’s mouth straightens, he’s still holding up his hands in place, ridiculously, and walking beside Spock. “No.”

“So, you are more unwilling to address and rationally judge your emotions then most humans?” Spock’s having fun teasing him.

“I mean, I am the captain of the Federation’s best starship, I must not be _that_ emotionally compromised, generally.”

“And I am the commander of the Federation’s flagship, as well as the acting captain on a regular basis, so certainly I am adequate as well.” Jim looks at him fondly.

“You could’ve been a captain, you know. The Captain, instead of me.”

Spock is quiet.

“Why didn’t you decide to?”

Spock is still walking forward, to their destination, Jim at his side.

“You didn’t even sign on to the Enterprise until the last minute.”

“And you did not rationally make preparations for the possibility that I would not come. You did not handle the situation any more competently.”

“Yeah, well,” Jim looks off to the side, “I can’t imagine being out here without you.”

“I… did not wish to assume command after my failures.”

“But you were new to it. Every captain makes some mistakes when they’re new. And you only fucked up a little.” Spock stares at him incredulously. “If it had been anyone but me, you would have held it together. And you still did, in the end. If you were a captain now -- and you are sometimes -- you wouldn’t make those mistakes again, you know your stuff now.”

“I find it is easier to challenge your decisions from a subordinate position. You respond better to questions of your competence then.” Jim responds less like he’s being threatened if he’s the one who thinks he’s in charge of the circumstances, Spock realized that almost immediately upon working together. In hindsight, that instinct of Jim’s combined with Spock’s dislike of emotionally backed dissent without immediate factual support, made Spock’s initial marooning of Jim an unavoidable outcome given their natures. The change in command arrangement has much improved their ability to function as a unit.

“Well, I do love being put in my place.” Jim wriggles his eyebrows, flashing a wicked smile. “And I can count on you to do it whenever I’m being an idiot.”

“And you are competent enough to know when you need to reevaluate yourself and your point of view. I do not know if I could make those decisions, were I in your place.” Spock, momentarily, wants to smile as he gives out the praise, but he reins it in. “...I was incapable of it when --”

“You know better now,” Jim assures him, serious.

Spock lets it drop. Still moving forward.

“I -- I don’t even know if I’m allowed to talk about this, or whatever,” Jim’s suddenly pushing a hand through his hair, “In that other timeline, or universe, the older you’s one, I was… the other me was such a good -- a real stand up guy.”

Jim laughs suddenly, almost bitterly, and Spock stops walking. Jim curbs to a stop beside him, and they take in each other.

“You’re a good captain, Spock. A good guy. Sometimes I worry one day I’ll end up a drunk pirate, or something.” Jim glances up at him, still all nerves, and his eyes silently say ‘ _especially if I didn’t have you_ ’.

“A... pirate?”

Jim’s lost in his own head, though, and lost as well is the string of logical explanations that could help depict whatever is inside him to Spock. “That other me, he destroyed the Enterprise.” Jim’s eyes are blazing, lost in a memory that isn’t his own, a concept that never should have been his to even consider. “I don’t know _why_. I just know he did it. I did it, in another life. And if someone who had a lot more restraint than me… ended up fucking -- I can’t imagine why I’d ever need to do that. Unless the crew was at stake, or something. I think… there wasn’t a crew on the Enterprise, when that happened. I think everyone was safe, so that’s good. So at least that makes sense. But it still…”

Spock wants to reach out and touch Jim, shake him out of ideas that never should have had the presence to plague him. Wants to hold him and remind him that he’s not the kind of person who would ever choose to do wrong, and Spock would keep him from ever getting anywhere _near_ that kind of place. Though he knows, utterly and thoroughly _knows_ it would be impossible for Jim to ever get to such a point. To ever become such a person.    

But Spock doesn’t reach out. Just stands close, holds him with his gaze instead, and waits patiently for Jim to come back to himself.

“Maybe you will be better than he ever was,” Spock says into the space between them, cutting the darkness in Jim’s mind.

Jim looks up at him imploringly. Desperate edge to the blue boring into Spock.

“Experiencing problems and failure increases learning. Perhaps our timeline, containing disasters earlier on, and in perhaps greater quantity, during our lives has made us more knowledgeable, and better prepared, than our counterparts in their own timeline were.”

“...So, what, I’m a better person then the other guy cause my life was more fucked up, so far?”

“A hypothesis.” He regards Jim fondly.

“That the other us’s are worse.” The words come out gentle, Jim’s fears have abated. To Spock’s dismay, he still looks as if recollections that are not his own dance just below the surface.

There’s a sudden hatred that spikes up before it is repressed and smoothed into folds below an unchangingly calm exterior. The idea of another person touching Jim in the most intimate of ways, pushing feelings into him without consent, the reality that the violator was himself -- another him, a version that has no qualms with breaching Jim’s mind without informed permission, is incomprehensible. Unforgivable. Spock somehow, must have let some inkling of himself become visible, because Jim goes from relaxed to alert and he edges further into Spock’s space.

“Hey. Hey what --” Jim has a hand on Spock’s shoulder, surge of warm contact, the weight of all Jim’s projections of comfort that Spock is resolutely blocking out because now, particularly, the idea of touching or hearing what goes on inside Jim without generous invitation is an appalling notion that makes him revel in guilt.

Jim must be able to sense the guilt, somehow. He tends to do that. See things Spock is sure he isn’t projecting, trying very hard to not burden the outside world with, Jim with. “You’re thinking about the mind meld thing again?”

Jim doesn’t even wait for an answer, and it’s beyond frustrating that Spock still has no idea how Jim can perfectly read him sometimes. Perhaps -- and another stab of guilt rakes through him -- it is because that other older him made Jim so familiar, made Spock’s thoughts and mannerisms and decision processes second nature beside Jim’s own. And it’s so disturbing, that any version of Spock would do that to Jim, force him into that familiarity before Jim could give even a sign of willingness, that apparently such a version of himself was so similar that even with such cruelty, they could somehow think and behave closely enough that Jim could interpret both through the same methods. That, therefore, Spock himself could commit all the same cruelties, has every potential to do so, might even do so one day just as an older him already had.

 

Horrific.

 

Even moreso, that Jim continues to defend him and those vile actions. “-- he didn’t mean any harm, you know how it was, with everything --” Jim is defending the older one again, still not comprehending the truth of what’s been done, apparently. “And he just wanted to hurry up and let me know what I needed to help. Let me know how you were feeling, then. So I could handle it right.”

Jim interprets Spock’s silence incorrectly, but the sentiment is grasped.

“You know I don’t like you because of what he did.” The look he gives Spock implies the statement is fact, fully believed and resolute, as do the hands on either side of Spock, pressure against his shoulders. The comfort makes Spock reel internally, he does not deserve it.

“To initiate something so intrusive and encompassing, any fondness he or your counterpart felt surely were retained as a residual effect, regardless of --”

“Look, I just get flashes, okay? Mostly what I got was a whole lot of grief, a whole lot of I’m-fucked-up -- _Spock_ is fucked up, right now, and I have to realize he -- you’re -- just a person and you can’t handle this… but _someone_ had to handle it, and the other you had enough sense to get it through my thick skull how to do that. Handle it. Keep everything from getting even shittier. Keep us alive.”

Jim is so breathtakingly close, Spock can feel the words as they leave his lips, the air moving against his skin, and it makes his heart ache.

“He didn’t brainwash me into liking you. You did that all on your own, after being an asshole for a while first.”

Spock wants, badly and against reason, to just believe Jim at his words, accept that soothing tone of voice and let go of what was and pretend what is now is not a result of all past events. “Regardless, his intrusion must have left an impact --”

“Maybe. Look, all I’m saying is,” Jim looks tired. His counterpart has made Jim tired with trying to defend indefensible actions -- realistically, Jim is correct and Spock is being overly emotional, holding onto blame when a desirable result was achieved with minimal apparent mind-related damage to Jim. And seeking to continuously feel guilty about it, and hate his other self’s poor evolution into grey morality, is not necessary nor beneficial in this moment or in relation to past events. Regardless, Spock feels unable or unwilling to reign in himself. “He tried. And that’s good enough.”

Spock is quiet, feigning relaxation, but ultimately he can feel the rigid way his body is held and knows Jim will not accept this as a full win.

A wry smile pulls at Jim’s lips. Jim is pulling Spock along, one arm wrapped around one of Spock’s, almost skipping, and it’s sweet enough that Spock feels himself _want_ to unwind, even if he doesn’t actually do so. “C’mon.”

Jim nudges his shoulder into Spock’s, body against his for a pleasant moment, and they start walking again. They don’t have to be to the meeting for twenty more minutes, but they’ve been spending a lot more interim time together, in the spaces between active duty and sleep, since their private time has been significantly featuring each other as of late. It’s bleeding together, their time as friends and coworkers, and Jim’s behavior is falling into messy conglomerates. Touchier now always, more confrontational now near constantly. They don’t kiss, or indulge sexually on duty -- or on their way to duty, but the lines between friendly affection and romantic familiarity no longer appear to be present.

Spock can not find it in him to consider such actions a violation of their agreement, however. For as much more familiar as Jim has become with Spock’s body, and more willing he has become to engage Spock’s words and nonverbal cues, Jim has acted in such ways with others. Has touched Leonard like this, and Nyota, and Hikaru, and many friends in this manner, on occasion or with great frequency. And Spock cannot fault Jim for challenging Spock, because he has a smile on his beautiful face, and projects such fondness even at the height of disagreement, and so Spock knows it is not meant in any more harm then when Jim goes at it with McCoy.

It is still something new.

 

Spock begins a debate on the merits and drawbacks of masculinity as it relates to bonding, and how insulting and contradicting a friend is not the most logical approach to strengthening such bonds.

Jim smiles easily and keeps alternatively leaning against Spock and bouncing on his feet as they launch into this lighter topic, reminding Spock brightly that “Humans are illogical, what can I -- you know now that you mention it, doesn’t Uhura mess with you too? It’s not just a guy thing, improving friendships through teasing.”

Spock lets a surfacing of annoyance, the smallest of his current feelings, to the forefront for Jim to take delight in -- as Jim often does. In this instance, because Spock is suddenly recalling that, in fact, Nyota does takes great pleasure in teasing him every so often, as well as in teasing her other friends.

“Must be a human thing.”

Spock almost frowns, though inside his guilt has washed away and all that’s left is incredible gratefulness that this human, and his other friends, are pieces of his life and will remain so, at least until this five year mission ends. “Friendship with humans is quite irrational.”

“It’s too late to change your mind now, you’re stuck with us.”

This is what it feels like. This is why it is worth it. Irrational, but thoroughly emotionally satisfying.

 

**_____________ **

  


“Perhaps I am the bad one.” Spock still has the counterpart on his mind, the dubious action they took -- that he could take too -- the ringing defenses Jim has made since the first time Spock discovered the two had shared minds. Decides the logical thing is to consider the possibility of the other version of himself having actually made the right choice, and the right decisions, the possibility that his friend Jim is quite correct in his assessments. Jim is often unduly emotional, but his judgement of character is usually remarkably accurate.

“No. There’s no version of you that’s bad, Spock.” That is not true. There surely is some universe where Spock is thoroughly malicious, to all, to even Jim. It is already realistic to acknowledge Spock himself is fully capable of cruelty exactly how he is, given all he has already done and wished to do in certain moments.

“That is an illogical assumption, it is improbable that --”

“You’re a good person.”

“I almost killed you.”

“Yeah, because I provoked you --”

“That was not the moral course of --”

“Anyone would have done what you did. I purposely broke you, Spock. I pushed you to do that. No one could have handled that without getting compromised. And you were back to your senses super quick, then you saved everyone, so it’s not like --”

“I wanted to kill Nero.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because of you.”

“You’re not a bad guy, Spock.” A stretch of silence, Jim wordlessly trying to convince Spock with his look and his hands on Spock’s shoulders, grip firm and supportive, urging. “And you never will be.” Jim is trying to impart his faith into Spock like an absolute truth, the push against Spock’s shields is remarkably insistent. “And…  I’ll always be here to help you, if you want it.”

Jim’s expression is distorted with quiet agony, and it is plain that he can approximate Spock’s hopelessness, Spock’s doubt. That whatever evidence is leaking out disturbs Jim intensely. Only Jim would go to all this trouble to push an erroneous argument, in direct opposition to facts. He is entirely too compassionate for his own good. “I promise.”

“You cannot make a promise like that, you have no idea if you will be --”

“I’ll make sure I’m there, if you want me to be. You won’t ever be a bad guy, Spock. You wouldn’t anyway. You’re Spock.”

Jim’s faith in Spock is without reserve, and it is utterly undeserved.   


 

**_____________ **

  


They’re talking about counterparts again, and despite how heavy the topic was last time, and the time before that, Jim is vehement about making it more lighthearted this time. They need some kind of meaningless reprieve to exist in for a while. The Neraidians just keep getting worse, and Spock’s already told him just how worse potentially -- turns out the bastards are just as destruction ready as an angry Romulan. And Spock is in a uniquely unpleasant place regarding it all.

It’s clear that Spock knows his duties, is completely resolute on carrying out whatever order Jim, and Admiral Pike above them, ultimately decides on. But Spock is also, well, Vulcan. Partly.

And talking to his father again -- occasionally, before this whole invading fairies business, Spock would slip off early from a chess match with Jim stating some arbitrary vague reason, usually meditation. But really, Spock had been calling his father -- those times when they’d flown close enough to wherever Ambassador Sarek was staying, so that Spock could have a chat in real time. One night, three and a half months ago, the Enterprise had one of it’s regularly ill-timed crises, and Jim had commed Spock only to interrupt one such call to his father.

All these Vulcan refugees, sticking their noses into Federation threats just for the gamble of aid, it’s tearing Spock up inside. Jim can tell, every single time they see one of them walking about, stiff and measured, Spock is considering bolting to a colony, or to his father’s side to maybe negotiate with species already in the Federation for more help. Or maybe he’s just debating if he should throw himself off a cliff, into the void, because logical or not Spock is a piece of work and there’s no way, after everything Jim’s learned about him, that Spock does not at least partly blame himself for everything that happened.

It’s like it bleeds into everything else, this single unrelenting feeling of Spock’s, whether he wants it to or not.

When they’re joking around, and suddenly some word reminds Spock of mind melds, which reminds Spock of himself and his other selves, and reminds him of what happened, and he’s just gone. Locked up tight and gone and somehow Jim can _still_ feel it. Somehow it’s almost magnified, then, because it’s so obviously thrown behind walls and shining through like solar flares.

When they’re quietly contemplating a chess move, and suddenly Spock seems to focus in on the fact he’s adrift on a ship in space exploring to his heart’s content while other people are trapped and lost, and he’s got the Enterprise, a home, and it’s not big enough to give to all of them too. It’s not a home most others would even want. And he’s spiraling again and it’s quiet and Jim can _tell_. It’s when Spock broke up with Uhura without so much as an explanation as far as the rest of the crew -- their friends -- were concerned. Then Bones tells Jim, weeks later, that it’s because Spock had momentarily attempted fleeing to go make some children with a Vulcan, probably any Vulcan, before somehow he came back to his senses.

Or maybe all those things are the common sense thing to do. And Jim is delaying all that, distracting him, dragging him down and away on this epic fantastical space adventure, and it’s all just greed. Selfish selfish greed. For Spock to be happy. For Spock to get what he wants. For Spock to be here with him.

Jim might, maybe, follow Spock. If he does change his mind. Leaves.

It’s against everything Jim wants out of life, or thinks he wants out of life. Against everything Christopher Pike told him to work for, when he showed up in Jim’s life and stepped into a marginally fatherly role in a way no one else had ever done quite as satisfyingly. It would be diametrically different to the world Jim knows could and has existed -- one where him and Spock sail the stars together and explore the unknown, always somehow surviving and thriving, together.

Perhaps not diametrically. But. Jim probably would not get to be a captain anymore -- and if he did, then he’d probably have to be a captain on some tiny freighter or passenger shuttling ship, unable to explore for the most part, just hovering near wherever Spock ends up going. He would, almost undoubtedly, have to give up the Enterprise. His favorite object in the whole universe. The one place he’s ever felt totally and thoroughly at home.

Of course Jim would follow Spock. Selfish. Jim, he’d give up anything to do that, to keep plaguing this sweetheart of a guy until he finally eventually pushes too far, and makes Spock a murderer -- which he promised he’d prevent in the first place -- because that’s the only way Spock probably _could_ get rid of him.

He wants so badly to believe he’s better than those visions in his head, those hazy dreams where he blows up his home and loses someone indistinct but that he knows somehow is his son, _a son,_ all for just a memory of Spock. Just a memory, a hope. Not even anything substantial. There’s no way it could have been worth it. And yet Jim gets the impressions, knows somehow that apparently the stand up version of him in another universe completely felt it was worth it.

Jim knows he’s so much worse. So much worse than that version of himself. He doesn’t understand why he would sacrifice so much for a memory, rationally. But when he looks at Spock across from him, distractedly nibbling on a piece of bread, he thinks he would burn the world down for him.

 

Of course he would.

 

Anything for Spock -- and Jim knows that’s an unhealthy thought. And Spock is looking up at him, curiously, so Jim smiles like sunshine to distract the matter. For a moment, Spock stops contemplating the weight of what he thinks he has to do from all perspectives, and just tilts his head at Jim. It’s nice.

This is nice. Spock happy. Spock okay. Is it really selfishness to want what’s best for him? For them? Do those two things have to be different?

 

There is a certain logic in Spock not abandoning his dreams just to do civilian crisis control on a problem ultimately created by a guy who didn’t know how to handle emotionally processing a tragedy (Nero). Spock bailing on helping the whole federation, just to do whatever he thinks is expected, even… if he plans on going Sylon’s route, maybe even helping in actions distinctly Romulan-esque in cruelty and selfishness… wouldn’t all that, in a way, also be not knowing how to emotionally process a tragedy? And maybe, maybe all this impulsive fleeing Spock keeps almost doing, is the wrong way to handle it.

Not that Jim has any fucking clue. He’s got experience in suffering, loss, sure. But nothing really tops what Spock went through. And Jim didn’t exactly handle any of his tragedies well. He just… he handled them. He lived. Spock’s already doing eons better than Jim at it -- he’s alive and he’s like, a productive member of society in the meanwhile.

Spock’s head un-tilts and even though they’re in the mess hall, a handful of crewmen strewn about the many tables, Spock moves his free hand over to Jim’s, and touches his middle and index fingers to Jim’s knuckles, glides them back and forth softly. Spock’s face is inscrutable as ever, but Jim still feels fondness like a summer sun beating down into his skin. 

It feels a little like there’s a current running through them, a circuit completed, like Spock is playing around with the voltage as his fingers dance, pressure varying, like Spock’s flowing through him in increments. First a little fondness, then a flood, then a tiny little trickle, cycling through. It’s like rocking on calm waves on some beach on Risa, and Jim can’t remember what he was thinking or doing before.

He’s probably smiling like an idiot, broad enough that it’s probably the first thing people notice as they wade in for lunch. Another surge of that warmth hits, first his knuckles then his nerves and veins like it’s travelling up to his heart and he feels so _complete_. Like butterflies once they’ve settled, it’s warmth but beyond that. Fluttering but soaring, roaming the sky but anchored to Spock. Grounded. Walking on the Enterprise’s artificial gravity -- held and free, with what he loves most.  

Spock’s fingers jerk away -- a subtle motion, only a few centimeters farther than they were. But it’s tantamount, the circuit is broken.

To everyone else in the mess hall, an innocent little accidental touch, if they even noticed it, simply ended.

Insignificant.

 

Jim pretends he’s just like everyone else in the mess hall. “So,” he starts, forcing a smile that he’s almost certain looks as easy as ever, he’s good at this. He’s always been good at this. “You think anyone can hear us?”

Jim leans forward, interlocks his hands and leans on them. Maybe, partly, Jim wants to close the distance back up. Hates a tiny, little bit, that Spock moved away. Jim searches Spock’s eyes and face for some kind of giveaway, but there’s none. If anything, Spock looks like he laid down five brick walls in the spanse of those three centimeters, he’s holding himself so rigidly.

Spock looks like he’s considering making some smartass remark, he opens his mouth almost committed to it, before simply saying “No.” Those brown eyes soften a tiny bit every moment that passes without Jim’s smile letting up. “As long as we are not particularly loud.”

Spock tilts his head again, and he’s melting -- him and Jim both -- back into something resembling relaxation again.

“If you wish to discuss something private, perhaps this is not --”

“I was just gonna say one last thing about it. Like. Say it does happen here. Am I allowed to like --”

“If that did happen _here,_ as in, in relation to us, then regardless the counterpart would still be from an ‘evil’ parallel universe, therefore, ‘evil.’” Spock is looking at Jim like he’s incredibly, tragically unintelligent. “And while I understand that we agreed that if we discussed it, technically it may be considered allowed -- although I did not yet give you any such permission -- you do realize having sex with them would be,” Spock is waiting for Jim to show even an inkling of common sense right now. Just a smidgen even. But instead Jim is grinning, relentless. He can’t wait for Spock to tell him off.

“Oh, perhaps, dangerous? Deadly?” Jim is still smiling, not giving Spock a damn thing. The flicker of frustration as Spock stares back at him is delightful. If Spock were human, he’d have said _‘are you kidding me?_ ’ by now. Instead, he goes with “Just because someone shares my name and physical attributes, or even vaguely reminds you of me, does not mean they’re trustworthy in the slightest. You _know that._ ” At the last bit, Spock actually sounds a tiny bit exasperated.

And they’re in the mess hall, not the bedroom. The lights are at full luminosity and Jim didn’t have to jerk him off and tease him to make him actually sound frustrated. This is absolutely thrilling, in Jim’s humble opinion.

“I know that,” Jim confirms, still smiling wildly, taking it all in.

“And you are still asking me if you may have permission to sexually engage, theoretically, with an ‘evil’ counterpart of mine from an ‘evil’ parallel universe, if we so happen to stumble upon it coincidentally in the same manner as the Enterprise crew that my older counterpart is from did. Even though, and I am quoting _you_ , ‘everyone there is super evil like actual villains Spock -- they kill people’,” and while Spock doesn’t exactly do a hilarious falsetto while quoting him, Spock does somehow change his inflection enough to be insulting.

 

There is a small break, where Spock is no doubt considering how much effort he really wants to put into making Jim realize his request is ludicrous. It stretches, and Jim wonders if Spock has figured out yet that he’s being played with.

“Yep.” Jim pipes up, happy to fill the silence. To fill Spock’s thoughts up. “I’m still asking you.”

Spock has that little twinkle in his eye, that glint that reminds Jim of being strangled on the bridge. Much more subdued, of course. But it’s there.

“You can ask why all day, because yeah, dangerous. But I’m still asking.” Jim is smirking, and on the edge of sing song. And no one else in this whole mess hall realizes what a special monumental occasion this is -- Spock is pissed off and it’s obvious and it’s glorious. And it’s all for Jim.

Jim wants to credit the emotion as jealousy, because that’d be truly fantastic. Spock, jealous over him. That’s the holy grail.

But realistically, Spock is probably just irked for the obvious reason -- asking permission to bang a potential serial killer just cause it might theoretically come up one day, that’s kind of irrational. To be fair.

“I mean,” Jim leans forward even more, and for some reason that makes Spock glare just a little harder -- like he can’t believe Jim is so close and still so unbearably dense that he can’t accept Spock’s reasoning. “I could take him. Evil you, whatever. It’s not like I couldn’t help myself if stuff got violent.”

Spock looks entirely beyond skeptical. There’s no pity though. If a flying shark decided to take a bite out of Jim right now, Spock would sit there unphased and say ‘ _I’m sure you can handle it, just a flesh wound_.’

Jim leans forward even more, and he’s wildly ecstatic when his elbows bump into Spock’s hands, when the touch stays unbroken. “You don’t think I could?”

Spock pulls his mouth into a tight line and tries his damnedest not to roll his eyes. Jim’s pretty sure Spock has, finally, realized this is a game. Because he’s unwinding again, shields dropping like boulders, looking at Jim softly and exasperated, like he does every time they do this.

Jim can’t feel the fondness in his skin this time, but he knows that look anyway.

“So… I take it I do _not_ have permission to bang an evil alternate universe you, if the opportunity comes up.”

“That is accurate.”

“What about a non-evil alternate you? Is that allowed?” Jim is going for levity, but a dark look graces Spock’s features for a moment and Jim worries he messed up. A lot.

The look goes away as quickly as it came, and Spock is unreadable. “As you have not asked them on their opinion on all this, I am hardly the only person you need permission from.” Jim shakes his head. At least Spock redirecting is better then him having a breakdown. “However, you will not be recieving my approval, so the possibility is irrelevant.”

“Oh?” Jim pushes himself up, eager. “So you don’t wanna share me?”

Spock twitches, a little giveaway -- surprisingly big for him, actually, given that they’re in public right now -- that he was not expecting that question. Too bad he recovers fast. “We were not discussing ‘sharing’. You asked if I would be comfortable with you engaging with another partner, apparently partners who look like me -- which is incredibly specific -- and I am not.”

“Not what?” Jim is being a jerk. Spock probably wants to wipe the endless smiling off his face -- Jim wishes he’d do it with a kiss. But, no. That would be too cheesy and romantic and cute and perfect. Not in this lifetime. Not now, anyway.

“Not comfortable with you -- engaging others. Who look like me.”

“What about… the Ambassador? Celest, I think? Can I sleep with him?” Jim is just pushing his luck at this point. But it’s just, it’s too good. Spock is potentially seconds away from admitting he’s jealous. And god, does Jim want Spock to want him that bad, enough to be _jealous._ Please.

“No.”

Okay, so maybe not seconds away. Maybe Spock would rather pull his own teeth out then actually admit a damn thing. Ever. “I thought you said, we said, we could discuss if we wanted to sleep with someone?”

“We did. And we are discussing it. You may ask whenever you wish to discuss a new potential match.” Spock leans forward too, and Jim can’t see anything but Spock, and they’re so close they could lean forward and just collide, and he’s way too much of a romantic because no way is Spock going to kiss him to shut him up right now. Right?

“As for your current suggestion, might I add an additional caveat: do not ask my permission to involve yourself with people you do not even want, and who do not want you. It’s particularly wasteful.”

“I’m wasting your time?” Jim can feel Spock’s breath. They’re still in the mess hall, there’s probably a few dozen crewmen present now.

Spock’s lips move, and for a moment Jim deliriously hopes, even though it’s insane, that Spock is going to kiss him. Claim him. Just outright not care at all. Let Jim know what the fuck is up.

But actually, it’s a smirk. A tiny, barely there, smirk that Spock’s lips just twisted into.

Spock huffs out a single breath, and Jim recognizes from all the Spock tickling he’s been doing lately that the noise is basically a laugh. 

Oh no.

“While we are on the subject, though,” Spock begins, licking his lips. Jim wants to lick them too. He could. He could just lean forward and join in, initiate a kiss himself. They’re close enough. Jim doesn’t know if he’s allowed, this isn’t his game. “In the event that we were to run into some alternate universe counterparts, I might like to engage with one of yours. It could be... interesting. And if they are at all like you, I doubt they would be uninterested in the prospect. If… the opportunity were to present itself.”

Spock is burning holes into Jim, making him into a bottomless pit, and it’s fucked. Jim feels like a thousand degrees, like a heap of hydrogen atoms splitting in a sun. Jim knows it’s just a game, Spock’s playing it back, and Spock is _so good_ at playing when he wants to be. It’s in equal parts the most exhilarating thing Jim’s ever experienced -- just getting to spar with a man who is literally the only person in the galaxy on par with himself -- and the most terrifying. Spock could break him into tiny pieces, right now. Yeah, Jim was playing just to make sure Spock was interested.

But Jim’s got his heart on the line. Who the fuck knows if Spock plans on going easy on it.

“No.” Jim’s blurting before thoughts can even coalesce in his mind, before he can even remember that this is a game of strategy and Spock’s operating on something probably, and acting before thinking isn’t necessarily the smartest thing in the world against that. “No. No. Absolutely not. You don’t have permission. No permission. Do not fuck alternate Jims. You’ve got one already.”

Spock is smiling still, that little dangerous quirk, and Jim is at least relieved that Spock didn’t freak out over the sudden protectiveness. Jim slows himself down, weary now that he’s dodged the first pass. He leans back a bit from Spock, from that lovely little smile just for him, and collects himself, folding his arms across his chest.

Spock returns to a more upright sitting position again as well, though he does not move far. He’s still curved toward Jim. Which is, nice. It’s super nice. Jim almost wants to trust the fucker, he’s being so gentlemanly with the throwback. So far.

 

Jim’s still mildly worried a heartbreak out of the blue is going to stab him. Imminently.

 

“I suppose one will have to be enough for each of us,” Spock considers, unhurried, eyes taking in Jim and reading everything. Far too much. Jim is exposed. Naked, not in the fun way.

Well, sort of the fun way. After all, it’s always exhilarating, being with Spock. Even like this. Vulnerable.

Spock pushes an eyebrow up, and Jim tenses his body on instinct. “What about…” Spock steeples his fingers, eyes hazing, in the middle of some secret thought that Jim desperately wishes he were witness to. “I see no reason to be opposed to, perhaps, a threesome. After all, we would both be active participants.”

“What?” Jim is leaning forward again, closing the gap, one of his elbows lightly nudging one of Spock’s as he resumes his former position. Mirrors Spock, leaning his head on his hands as well. He was not expecting anything like that to ever come out of that mouth, ever.

“Well… perhaps if those particular… theoretical situations ever presented themselves…” Spock really is ponderous now, and that’s no good, because it means he’s not playing a game. This is a real talk. About real stuff. It sounds cute enough, sure, coming out of Spock’s mouth in light contemplative tones, just ideas. But.

“I am certain, in at least some of those potential scenarios, your counterpart would be amenable to the idea… after all, you generally have a favorable opinion of triads, and sexual arrangements. And --”

“Yeah but --”

“Technically I would only be engaging with you. Multiple versions of you. But you.”

Jim opens his mouth to make some kind of retort.

Spock assumes the response and carries on, “It would not be objectionable the way you said an arrangement with Leonard would be.”

“Well, yeah! He’s my best friend. We can’t have sex with my best friend! Plus that’s why a threesome with Uhura was off the table, kind of --”

“I do not really consider Nyota or Leonard similar in this particular relevance, but moving forward --”

“I still can’t believe you think Bones is hot.”

Spock halts momentarily and actually glances around, as if suddenly remembering the threat of prying ears. When he speaks again, his voice is lowered, as if setting an example for Jim, a silent plea to keep this information better guarded. “You are aware of the fact I tend to gravitate towards brunettes with emotional inclinations, it is not so unlikely that I would find traits I gravitate towards in McCoy, he shares many traits that I value in Nyota… and many traits of his I find intolerable.” Spock is practically whispering, the skin over his cheekbones tinted the barest bit green, probably regretting that he ever answered Jim when asked _‘Do you think you have a type?_ ’. “I merely meant, when I suggested even a bare possibility of a threesome last time, with McCoy, that he has physical traits I consider amenable.”

“You actually can’t stand him half the time… but he’s hot enough to fuck?” Jim is whispering back, a fair bit louder, incredulous.

Spock looks like he’s trying to sink into the floor. But he knows it’s impossible and so he’s painfully resigned. “Moving on, as that is not the relevant point --” And Spock speaks over Jim when he tries to interject, “You already stated your distaste for that idea and I accept that. Anyway.” Spock waits for Jim to stop trying to speak over him. They’ve gotten quite loud again, back to conversational level. And Jim suspects that Spock is regretting having ever chosen to engage Jim in debate this particular afternoon.

Finally, once Jim is done flopping open his mouth, Spock starts back up. Measured, voice low. “Anyway. If we ever do wish to add a third party to our activities, I would be interested in adding any doppelgangers of yours if the situation presents itself.”

Jim can’t help himself. “Even if it’s evil universe me? Or like that mission way back when we started, where I got split in two, and half of me was awful?! Like, you’d -- okay, first, any alternate universe counterpart is off limits. Period. You don’t know them.” Jim takes a deep breath, thinks. “Second, if I get cloned or split in half -- which knowing my luck, is actually a thing that could reasonably happen, and happen while we’re feeling frisky -- and I can’t believe I just said ‘feeling frisky’ forget I said that -- then. Um. I guess if I’m cloned, maybe?” Jim’s voice squeaks. “I mean, cause I guess it’d both be me? And hey if you want me with twice the hands and parts who am I to deny you? I guess? If it’s safe, and the opportunity did --” as Jim keeps going, he wonders if somehow, this was all a ploy by Spock to get him to regret bringing up fucking alternate selves in the first place. To teach him a lesson so he won’t annoy Spock over something so ridiculous ever again. If it is a ploy, Spock fucking nailed it. Jim will be a good boy. No more of this prodding Spock into getting angry just to enjoy the reaction bullshit.

Well. That’s not true. Jim would never fucking stop, who is he kidding. He deserves this, but it’s not teaching him shit.

“Uh. And if I get split apart again? Noooo. Cause evil me was, yikes. No one like that should be going anywhere near you, let alone getting _with_ you.”

“You don’t think I could handle him?” Spock is being such an ass, how dare he throw Jim’s own words back at him. Jim wants to say ‘ _I know you’re super strong and you had a point before, but fuck off’_ or maybe, _‘listen I know you think you’re being slick, but I can win when I want to, you know that, I could really fuck you up, so yeah, I don’t think you could handle it, and I won’t let you risk it’._

Instead, he sits up straight. Shoves the last of his sandwich, neglected for minutes now, into his mouth in one large chunk, uses the ample time it takes to properly chew and swallow to strategize. In the end, he’s got nothing.

“We are done talking about this,” Jim finally says, his food gone and time run out. “If a double of one of us shows up, and the stars fucking align for the perfect opportunity for a threesome -- not just one of us with a double, but a threesome with both of us -- _then_ we’ll _talk_ about it. About maybe, then, if we both agree, doing something about it. But we are _not_ pre-agreeing. We --”

“This whole theoretical conversation was merely to save time in the event --” Spock is throwing Jim’s own words from the last time they started this conversation into Jim’s to-blame face.

“No.”

Spock is so close to rolling his eyes, at this whole entire fiasco. Why he’s dragging out Jim’s misery, extending this highlighting session of Jim being an idiot by starting the mess, Jim has no idea. But it’s cruel, Jim needs a break. “We were simply discussing theoretical boundaries and what should be considered appropriate and what should not.”

“Well, we are done talking about it now, okay?” Spock won, he so totally utterly won. Jim’s been put in his place. He’s a sore fucking loser. What happened to no-win scenarios?

“So in essence, you don’t actually want us sleeping with anyone else.” Silence. “There is no situation in which we are implicitly allowed to engage with others sexually without discussing it with each other first. Basically.”

“….Yeah.” More silence, then Jim is bumbling, “Uh, if that’s okay... That’s okay, right?”

Spock gives a mysterious little smile, and it is heavenly. “Yes. That is acceptable, Jim.”

 

**_____________ **

 

Leonard is just about done with those two. To be honest, he’s been done for a while now, maybe ever since he first met them. Jim has probably taken years off of his life, which he’s sure Jim would argue is made up for in excitement. Which, hey, maybe Leonard didn’t fucking want that much ‘excitement,’ so the merits of such benefits are dubious, at best.

Spock, as of course would be the case considering how thoroughly Jim has dragged Spock into their lives, is just as exhausting. At least debating Spock _does_ make up for it. Every time he nails that stuck up prick with a dose of reality, hears an admission of defeat, it’s a choir of angels, to be perfectly honest.

And, as usual, those two only seem to get into ever increasing heaps of trouble. Leonard just wanted to come here for some lunch, not to see them making googly eyes for the billionth time. Still, he sits down beside them. He’s just a glutton for misery, apparently.

He’s trying to eat his salad, not choke on it. If he has to have one more spontaneous informal therapy session with Spock where the man waxes poetic about Jim’s annoying face, Bones is going to lock them in a shuttle together and break the engine. No one is going to rescue their asses until they talk it out. He’s done being the go between.

Last week marked the fourth time Jim found out something huge from Bones, that Spock maybe should have fucking told Jim himself. Fourth.  

“You two need couples therapy,” he throws offhand, hoping if nothing else they’ll both cower and he’ll get some peace for a few seconds. Instead Jim just throws him a weird look before carrying on, and Spock ignores the statement completely, as usual. They are taking _years_ off his life.

There isn’t a lot to do with the Neraidians around, with the mission being so long winded and diplomacy focused, so Bones hasn’t had much actual work to do. The last crewmembers with injuries are just about recovered now, and Chapel’s been micromanaging again, so it’s been utterly uneventful in Medical.

He almost wishes Spock and Jim _would_ come bug him for advice, for a guys night out, for something to do.

And isn’t that tragic. You’d think by now he’d have learned to enjoy a little down time when it came.

They haven’t actually bugged him much at all lately. And really, that means his duties aren’t so light after all. Those two bastards are working themselves to the bone -- no pun intended.

Leonard hasn’t seen either of them take a day off, or even more than two hours off, for over a week. They’re constantly shadowing Neraidians or locked up in meetings with Pike or Senior Officers, and Jim’s been looking thoroughly exhausted. Shadows under his eyes, drinking way too much coffee, casually requesting some vitamin boosters whenever he stops long enough to say a few words to Bones. And that’s so weird in itself, that he doesn’t even have time for Bones. Usually when he’s working this hard, at least, he’s glued to Bones’ side during down time, bemoaning how he’s gotta stay sober while Leonard has a few drinks, bitching about how tired he is, and close to death but refusing the idea of taking even a day off.

If the Neraidians stay as peaceful as they have been, Leonard might force Jim to take a mandatory leave period, put Scotty in charge.

Because this burning at both ends thing can’t keep up much longer. It’s downright unhealthy, irresponsible. More then that, it’s compromising to the Enterprise, and that’s a reason Jim will actually listen to.

His biggest job right now is doing the delicate balance work of keeping the Captain and First Officer functional, keeping them from running themselves to death, and making sure whatever he does about it doesn’t compromise the mission. Leonard isn’t stupid. He knows they’re not just destroying themselves out of stubbornness. This mission has been a minefield from the very first report that reached the Enterprise. Every department head has been pulling overtime trying to make sure whatever happens isn’t a Narada 2.0.

Scotty’s been guarding the dilithium stores like a hawk, monitoring for any more surprise ships or potential holes in space. Giotto’s been extending security to the planetside base, then doing damage control cause apparently some Neraidians keep getting onto the Enterprise and past the guards. Uhura’s been working her own people past breaking point -- trying to translate the Neraidian language, aiding Scotty’s potential signal search, supplementing Giotto’s security efforts, forwarding Starfleet  Headquarter’s commands to everyone and sending information back, and even helping in the negotiations since she’s got an undeniable gift with diplomacy and the Neraidian Ambassador seems intensely cooperative with her.

Leonard, himself, has been prepping supplies just in case everything does in fact go to shit a-la the Narada incident. Because this time he’s not going to let as many people die. Hopefully, none.

Maybe he’ll bring her some cupcakes. Or a vitamin boost. Jim and Spock aren’t the only officers getting close to collapse.


	5. I told you we weren't good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'There has to be a way to be better, to protect Spock from himself. There has to be a way, that this can work.  
> That this can be simple.'
> 
> Or, literally: Spock confronts the Neraidians, Jim and Spock are past sick of meetings, then kiss in the dark, then both keep secrets that won't stay hidden long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode has a bit more Neraidian plot, since that B-plot needs to wrap up, and is going to have something to do with Spock reaching his own revelations. 
> 
> TOS Episodes referenced: Lenore is from The Conscious of the King, the garden on the Enterprise is from Is There in Truth No Beauty. Events from the TOS movies The Wrath of Khan and Search for Spock get mentioned in passing again. (And also the pre-The Motion Picture Kirk/Spock breakup gets mentioned, if you squint).
> 
> I imagine, maybe, dilithium crystals share some of the same properties as lyrium in the Dragon Age games. They must be kind of special, since there's whole TOS episodes dedicated to how important they are to running the ship, and how hard they are to get. 
> 
> And the whole argument about ‘rest’, yes, Spock is being a hypocrite. He’s just using it as an excuse to flirt. Also, it’s not central to the story, but there might be a little Christine/Nyota/Leonard love triangle going on in the background. What can I say, everyone loves Nyota, she’s amazing. I've been trying to put parallels in when I can too, I'm not sure if anyone's picked up on it.
> 
> Quote that inspired the writing:  
> “Comin' through satellites while cruisin'  
> You're part of the past, but now you're the future  
> Signals crossing can get confusing
> 
> It's enough just to make you feel crazy, crazy, crazy  
> Sometimes, it's enough just to make you feel crazy” - Love by Lana Del Rey

 

 

Jim deserves so much better.

Sometimes it’s almost too much, Spock thinks. 

That he’s taking this too far.

It doesn’t matter how high he puts his walls up, Jim seeps through, like energy from stars through the void, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. Spock could not get far enough away, he could leave this galaxy, this universe. It still might not be enough space between them, to escape Jim’s light.

He kissed Jim today. Just reached over and touched. And took. 

And Jim would have given him everything, if he hadn’t pulled away. 

Spock would have to go impossibly far, to resist that warmth forever. 

Jim deserves so much. 

More. 

More than Spock can ever give.

 

Lunch is over, and they have a meeting with Admiral Pike at fourteen hundred. Jim is catching up on ship duties for the both of them, while Spock attempts to finally get to the heart of this Neraidian ploy. The crew is in need of recuperation soon, this mission cannot continue on indefinitely, and the intensity by which Scotty is reporting Neraidians are trying to get into the Engineering section of the Enterprise is increasing incrementally. There is some motive, there will be a breaking point.

The Neraidian General has asked for someone from command. They wish to speak privately, with all due haste. Apparently, they are equally eager to close up these negotiations. 

That will ultimately be up to them. 

Such negotiations would already be over, had they been more forthcoming, at any point, about their demands and the things they wished to offer in kind.

Spock beams down to the planet alone, foregoing an unnecessary security escort. The department is already stretched thin, filling Engineering, and the Science Complex below, requiring Lieutenant Uhura’s officers to supplement their efforts. 

 

It is windy planetside, pale sand stirring lightly as it dusts across the landscape. The pillars with orb tops mar the otherwise flat expanse of the geography to the west, and strange wisps of colors sweep by it’s windows, perhaps Neraidian magic. 

As Spock had suspected, the General who requested his presence, Solari, is not actually forthcoming during the meeting. Nor is the other General, a Neraidian who stands five feet in height, by the name of Nazaren. The latter of which has been managing this private compound, and is not aware of the circles Solari has been talking around in every banquet this week. 

The only thing of note, is that their demands, and offers in return, do not corroborate. They are lying, or else gravely unorganized. Their differences may reveal a sliver of some actual truth beneath. If Spock is particularly fortunate. 

“As I have already stated, if you explicitly tell me what it is you require, I would be more capable of relaying to you what the Federation will be likely to decide.” Spock is sitting across from both of them, a table encrusted in golden leaf nettled between, inside one of the smaller spheres. It has been thirty four minutes and seven seconds, and they seem incapable of processing the most basic of his requests. “Moreso, if you wish for the Federation to decide in favor of working with you, then it would benefit you to specify precisely what aid you are prepared to give.”

Nazaren sits up straighter, his chest wide and shoulders set, as if to intimidate. It appears to be targeted toward his companion beside him, rather than an attempt to affect Spock. “You don’t need to keep repeating yourself, Commander. You’re the one that isn’t listening. We’ve already discussed this. We’re prepared to aid the Vulcans. Or Starfleet. Or --”

“How?” 

“Magic, as we’ve already mentioned,” Solari adds, his arms crossed, mirroring Spock. 

“You are not specifying what magic, or it’s intended results.”

The shorter Neraidian rolls his eyes, huffs and growls all at once, muttering. He is given up on posturing, and has slunk back into his chair. “What is it humans say? Beating a dead bush? Beating a horse to death? Beating something. That’s what you’re doing, and it’s annoying.”

The taller one is holding himself impeccably, calmly sweeping a stray lock of hair behind his pointed ear before resuming a near identical posture to Spock’s. It is a ruse. This is the man who gestured jovially and threw careless smiles and caresses at Admiral Pike. He puts on whatever act he theorizes will achieve his objectives. Sylon mentioned how Neraidians believed in any means to achieve a desired end. Spock is not so dull as to be lured into false security just because something offers familiarity. 

Nazaren huffs again, fury starting to simmer at the fact he is the only one present who seems outwardly bothered. 

“You keep asking us to specify,” Solari starts, head resting on his raised hands, like Spock. “But that’s the thing. We can do so much, magic is nearly limitless in it’s capabilities. Whatever the Federation most needs from us, that is what we can do. So you see, we require them to agree to cooperate, so that they -- you -- may ask for what it is you’d like us to use our magic for.”

His, apparently, second in command -- by how they act -- pushes himself up straighter again. About to say something.

Solari nods his head, silent acknowledgement. “Of course, do be aware that our aid has limits. We can do a variety of things to help, with our magic, but there is a cap on how much we can spare for you.”

That. That is a sliver of truth, peaking through. 

“There is a limited supply of magic?” 

The shorter one’s face flashes, for an instant, before smoothing over. A human might not have caught such a short lapse. Solari, however, is still imitating nearly Vulcan levels of indifference. “I’m sure you understand, we cannot simply give you an uncapped offer. We do not intend to nurse your weak empire indefinitely -- forgive me for assuming, but you lot do keep asking for an awful lot -- we simply recognize that there are things your Federation has worth receiving. As we said, being permitted to establish a colony here would be most desirable, since it is so far from our home realm.”

“Yes! Getting a planet to establish a larger secondary population in this galaxy would be ideal. It takes considerable energy to keep traveling back and forth, surely that’s not too much to ask,” Nazaren adds, sounding most cooperative, so soon after his burst of hostility. 

“We are simply offering some help because we feel it would be more fair to…  pay somehow for that accommodation, if we are to maintain friendly relations with our new neighbors here in this universe. We could offer nothing, of course,” Solari stares into him, as if he half hopes Spock will beg him to take those words back. Spock thinks, perhaps, the lack of response, the lack of fear, unnerves the General to some degree. “But then we would risk building a colony without the area’s government approval, and we would prefer to avoid conflict with your people -- the Vulcans, and the Federation.” 

Spock decides this meeting is lost. 

They are not going to clear things up, not sufficiently, at any rate. So he might as well use this excursion to investigate further. “You said your demand is a colony? That is what you would like to receive from the Federation, if they choose to allow you in?” He addresses Nazaren, the weaker link. 

Solari is the one that answers. “Yes. Please don’t misunderstand us though, we don’t need a planet to ourselves or anything. We aren’t asking for as much space as those Vulcan diplomats keep saying _ they _ need. That’s why we were happy to leave the Vulcan colony and come here instead, when Starfleet asked us to. We would just like to establish some sizable colonies, so in the future when we decide to travel here, it will be easier. Surely you understand that.”

Spock picks up the sound of steps on the other side of the room’s stone door, wonders if they are telepathic guards, like the ones he passed as he entered the compound. Like the Neraidian dressed in lilac armor, who escorted him to this meeting. Who laid a heavy pressure against his psyche, trying to find cracks to slip through. 

He takes a moment to reinforce his mental shields. If the Generals are anywhere near as smart as they posture, then there’s a chance they're onto the fact he’s onto them. No need for the guards to relay exactly how. 

Nazaren fills up the silence it takes for Spock to work. “We really don’t ask for much. We’d be happy if the Federation could just give us permission to set up some more colonies alongside human ones, maybe some more populated areas, so we can establish significant trade.”

Solari is unreadable, but he is not Vulcan, and his eyes flicker infinitesimally, when Nazaren says the word ‘human’. 

“The Neraidians are willing to offer, in essence, anything the Federation could ask for, and in return all you request is a few small plots on established planets for some trade colonies?” 

Nazaren winces much more obviously, but they do both wince, because it does sound too good to be true, and they can’t pretend they aren’t aware of that. It’s too fanciful. “Well. As we said,” Solari starts, folding his arms, closing himself off. “We aren’t going to give endless supplies of wishes granted. Just one or a few things you may particularly need, that is within the amount of labor we’re prepared to give. It’s not an open offer of the world. Just an offer to give something you might really need, that’s easier for us to do than it is for your people.” Solari narrows his eyes, and Spock knows, Solari is ready to get rid of him, now. “Like we said. We can’t tell you what we can give until you people ask. So tell your people to figure out what they want most, within reason, and then we’ll wrap this up. Hopefully. Are we clear?”

Spock hears the other one whisper to himself, “Or are you going to keep repeating yourself to death?” already pushing out of his chair. Spock thinks the General knows exactly how well Vulcans can hear, the Neraidians have similar ear configurations. 

He can see why Sylon drew comparisons to the Romulans. They certainly have that special embodiment of superiority complex. The ones Romulan Commanders are notorious for.

The same guard that brought Spock to this meeting room promptly comes to march him out of the compound. There is no chance to linger, the circle of guards in more lilac armor surround the building, translucent walls spreading from around them, and Spock is effectively sealed out once more. 

Spock trails off to the Science Compound once he's alone. His plan, if they are amenable, is to open another dialogue with the Vulcan diplomats. They may be privy to additional information. 

He doesn’t get that far. 

As Spock enters the compound, he hears Sylon’s voice drifting down the hallway, from around one of the bends further up. Before Spock moves to intersect, he hears another voice, softer, placating. It is the Ambassador. 

They are arguing. Discussing something volatile. Sylon is not modulating his voice as a Vulcan would in public. It is an intimate intonation, the way Sarek used to speak to his mother at their estate in ShiKahr, in their cabins on trips. 

“Why not Vulcans? We would be more than willing to --”

“That’s not -- you’re not -- that’s not the point,” Celest is stammering out, disproportionately distressed. “We need dilithium crystals. That’s the point. You said there’s more. Well, can’t they spare some for us? Or better, a mine full of them or something?”

“Dilithium is not easy to obtain, Celest.” Spock recognizes that tone, the same gentle reassurance he uses on Jim. It is bewildering, that another Vulcan can now relate to his own experiences, to his father’s experiences. Has chosen a bondmate that is not one of them… that other Vulcans might be like Sylon too, end up like him. That in a few years Spock, existing, will no longer be extraordinary exception. Spock might not be alone. Not be too human for them, anymore. That he had to lose so many, so many people, for this outcome to manifest. “The Federation negotiates with and combats the Klingon Empire  -- an enemy force -- for dilithium sources. They will not be able to spare the amount you need. It is unlikely they have any to spare at all.”

Spock can hear the Ambassador, the magic singer, make a sound of protest, anguished. And it makes his own body ache, a phantom press of emotion that isn’t his own, but ravages him all the same. He tries to block it out by reinforcing his shields. It does not make a difference. 

The phantom pain, at least, fades off after the sound, an echo. 

“You don’t get it,” the Ambassador is almost crying out, and Spock feels another spike of anguish that isn’t his own flood through him. “We need crystals. Or else… please Sylon, there has to be something you can do. Someone you know who can convince them. Please.”

“I wish I could give you the answer you desire,” Sylon sounds the barest bit off, he is likely affected as well. “But the Federation cannot make something out of nothing. They don’t have enough dilithium stores to help your people.”

Celest lets out another small sad sound, and Spock’s heart is aching. “If they ask for colonies you can’t let the Vulcans share. You can’t.” 

Spock is baffled, as is Sylon. “I do not understand, Celest. The primary goal of allying is to receive aid from the Neraidians, wouldn’t sharing a colony help facilitate that? You are not making sense. Perhaps you should --”

“No. No. I’m fine. I am,” there is the sound of a push. “Look, I don’t think they’ll want to share one with the Vulcans anyway, too many mind readers, but.”

Spock is leaden, he has Celest’s pain overlaying him, seeped through him, like a mind meld but without the accompanying thoughts. It's awful. He can’t affect it, submerged with nothing to grab hold of and fight. And the feelings, they are their own kind of awful. 

Grief.

It’s grief. Grief of his planet dying. Grief of a colony dying. All of the colonies. 

“If we can’t get dilithium crystals, we are going to need souls, Sylon.” 

There is a desperate resignation in the tone of those words, and loss, faraway and immediate, drowns him. 

There is a sound of stumbling, someone falling against the wall. Sylon. His voice is rough. “Why do I feel this way? What are you doing, Celest?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Celest is trying to make his voice more monotonous, he is subpar at it. But Spock can grasp at his real self again, pieces of it, surfacing alongside the grief. “I just.” He is still in agony, they are all in agony, but it is being forced into repression. “A soul is like a katra, like you told me about, Sylon. Same thing, different animals. Bottom line, you’re not alive, not really, once it’s gone. You can’t be preserved in death when it’s gone. You’re gone. They’ll be… Sylon. There has to be a way we can make them give us some place to find dilithium crystals instead.” 

“Isn’t there some third option? Something else that could solve the issue?” 

“I told you, magic is give and take. We need a power source that can give the right kind, the right amount. And until we got here, souls was all there was. That was the original plan. If I hadn’t figured out those crystals can, maybe, work as a substitute, then… without them it’s not going to be good, Sylon. Fuck. Sylon. I’m sorry.” 

The grief is faded off, and Spock is all himself again. The agony bleeding out of Celest’s voice is contained. Spock thinks, Sylon’s voice, as he breaks in response, is all himself as well. “Don’t.”

“I told you we weren’t good.”

Jim would say, were he here, that ‘ _ if Sylon were human he’d be laughing, because he’s in pain’ _ .

“Your people have to kill to survive… no. You don’t need magic to survive, surely. You…”

There is the sound of skin touching skin, a soft caress. There is no phantom emotion in the air, but the halls feel heavy all the same. “Just. Don’t let the Vulcans share any colonies with us, please. I… I’m sorry I did this to you.”

A door opens, and Spock can hear Sylon suck in a breath, sharp, then he hears two pairs of footsteps fading away. 

 

\-------------------------

 

Meetings are so boring, Jim could die.

This is the fourth one today. Today. Spock is actually tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, next to Jim’s own clenched fist, so Jim knows he’s not being overly dramatic about it. The frequency is  _ really  _ pushing into excessive. 

Scotty is rambling on, about something, Jim hopes it’s relevant. Giotto already gave his report, and Jim needs him back to work stat -- both of them, actually -- so the sooner they can wrap up, the better. 

Spock is looking at him, and Jim spares a soft little smile, before realizing it’s not that kind of glance. He pushes himself up straighter and breathes in once he notices Spock’s pointed brow, how quiet the room has become. Scotty’s finished ranting, then. 

“Right,” Jim’s starting, eyes sweeping across the room, pushing out energy he doesn’t have as he puts on his Captain’s stance. “Sounds good.” Jim sees Bones looking at him pointedly now, too, and what did he  _ do _ to deserve two best friends who’ve both got no fucking mercy for him? “Ah, Scotty. I need you to assume command of the Enterprise for the shifts tomorrow where I’m on board too. Just -- doctor’s orders,” Jim winks at Bones, and is rewarded with a sneer, “Apparently he thinks we need to be delegating out the responsibilities a bit more, since this mission’s been dragging on for so long.” 

Scotty is nodding, easy as always, and he’s probably one of Jim’s easiest senior officers to work with. Well, when he’s not blowing the ship apart, because he thinks he’s entitled to hurt Jim’s baby. Because he think’s it’s actually his baby. In his dreams. 

Uhura never came to the meeting, she’s been swamped. Jim’s considered postponing non-record keeping yeoman duties, and using them to supplement Communications. But fucking Bones… he thinks the last thing everyone needs is for their daily needs to get harder, along with all the work stress. Without yeomen, that’s more paperwork for everyone, more mundane coffee fetching, more data double checking, more overworked crewmen. And it’d just fuck over the yeomen too, some of the only damn people on the ship not overbooked, at present. At least Bones is happy about _ their _ health.

Bones is still fucking glaring at him, bastard. But, Jim gets it. “That won’t be too much trouble, will it?” He’s serious, checking Scotty’s expression for any sign the guy is just trying to please him, is too tired to actually be taking it on. 

Scotty smiles though, looks decent enough, no little tells, and says “Aye, I think I can manage. ‘S only for a day or two.”

“Yeah,” Jim is grinning back. 

“Have you picked up any more anomalies, Mr. Scott?” Spock, diligent as ever, is remembering whatever Jim might be forgetting. 

“We haven’t seen any since the last hole ripped open, back when the Neraidians brought in their backup. I think it’s safe to say we probably won’t be seeing any more, ‘less they decide to leave. Though, didn’t someone say they made a permanent hole or something on the planet? Not that it’s registering on the scanners…”

“The looking glass on the planet is not giving off readings?” Spock’s eyes spark the tiniest bit, his hands given up on fidgeting since Jim last spoke. His right hand is so close to Jim’s, he could reach out if he wanted, brush it.

“None. Planet reads just like it did when we first got here. Bit strange, as I’d figured it woulda changed a bit, since everyone keeps mentioning magic down there. Figured magic would give off, well, something. But.” Scotty’s shrugging, leaning back in his chair. Perplexed.

Spock is too, his arms moving to fold. Face neutral, but Jim knows the little bend by his brow means he’s pretty much frowning. “It is curious. Perhaps they are shielding themselves-”

“Hiding something,” Jim chirps in. Spock nods, concern bleeding out, the faintest amount, in the way he holds his shoulders. 

They exchange a look, then dismiss everyone. 

Bones, like almost always, is the last to leave, and is throwing them a dirty look as he lingers. 

God, Jim loves him. 

“What’s up?” Jim sing songs, bouncing up from his own chair after Spock stands. 

Bones just narrows his eyes even more, and he’s not buying the energetic-ball-of-sunshine routine, at all. Jim smiles anyway, knowing it’s not going to placate the guy no matter how wide he makes it. Leans against the conference table, giving Spock a little glance so he’ll wait for him, then lobbing a stare back at Bones.

“Well?” 

There’s a tense silence for a few seconds, and then Bones lets out a sigh, and Jim knows he’s letting go of his steam, saving whatever’s boiling him up for some other time. Instead, he comes over next to Jim and leans too, and they’re in their own little private cove. It’s, apparently, worry sharing time. 

Jim could use a drink. But he’s not going to get one for at least a few more days. Not until this Neraidian thing is wrapped up. “I know I’m pretty, but are you just gonna stare, or are you gonna say something?”

Bones scoffs, and Jim can see Spock standing by the doorway, not sure if he should stay or go. 

Jim shakes his head,  _ ‘it’ll only be a minute,’ _ and Spock gives a nod, then walks out the door. Jim knows he’ll be just outside, waiting for Jim to leave with him as soon as this is over. 

“Have you guys figured out what they’re really up to?” 

“You were just at the meeting, you did hear me say soul stealing fairies, right?”

“I mean -- don’t get smart with me -- I”

“Can’t help it, geniuses get smart.”

“Smartass is what you are.”

“You were saying something?”

 “Yeah.” Bones sighs, he looks a little tired himself. “I mean, what does that mean? You told us, but not really, Jim.” He’s looking up at Jim, concern marring his features. “They’re still playing nice, so. What do you think is going to go down once they’re not? Or, I guess, when do you think they’re gonna stop bothering with all this peace talk?”

Jim gets it. Bones doesn’t want anyone to die. He doesn’t either. “We’re not sure… I. I know that’s not what you wanted to hear.” Bones looks like he’s about to say something, maybe get mad that Jim is ‘so tired he can’t form a decent strategy’ or that he’s being ‘a damn reckless fool’. “We already talked to Pike. He’s going to meet up with the General, the one that’s into him. See if he can’t figure out the specifics, or better yet, smooth things out somehow,”

“You trust him to manage that?”

“He’s Christopher Pike. I can’t imagine many people I’d trust more to handle that kind of job.”

Bones gives a half shrug, looks down at his feet. “Fair enough. I’ll see you later, then? See how it turned out.” 

Jim nods, and Bones makes to leave, looks at Jim one last time. “If you’ve got some spare time, it wouldn’t be the worst idea to prep for potential injuries, not sure how the next few days are gonna go.”

He gets a nod in reply, casual. This is just another day on the Enterprise. “Already did all the prepping I could reasonably justify, and then some. Most of medical has been at it, last few days. And now I’ve got them making lists of supplies we might need by our next stop, just cause I don’t like ‘em not-busy.”

Jim laughs, and for the first time today Bones actually looks like he believes Jim is holding up okay. Doing fine. Like he trusts his captain to handle it. Good. 

Jim follows out of the room after him, and sees Bones give him and Spock an odd look as they walk off together in the opposite direction. Then Bones is heading back to the sick bay, and Jim is trusting in Spock to take them to their next round of tasks.

 

“So.” Jim starts, wanting to shove his hands in his pockets, feeling strangely nervous all of a sudden. Maybe it’s because he can’t stop thinking about holding Spock’s hand. He doesn’t trust himself to not try to get to do it again. 

Not that they don’t do, that. While they’re in bed. But. It’s different when it’s like this. Like it means more.

Because Spock isn’t breaking apart, or tired, or losing control. He’s aware of his actions, deliberate, and he’s actively -- well, he actively started it, at lunch. And what a thrill that is. That Spock might.

Might want him. 

Not just because it feels good. Or because he wants Jim to feel good.

Spock is side eyeing him now too, as they head no where particular -- well, maybe somewhere particular, Jim is sure at least Spock knows where they have to be next -- and Jim is wondering if someone decided today was going to be pick on Jim day. “What?”

Spock opens his mouth to say something, but nothing is coming out. 

Jim stops and Spock follows suit, and all of a sudden they’re looking into each others eyes, a feet apart, in the middle of some corridor on the middle of the Enterprise. And for some reason it feels like a dream. Because it’s exactly the same thing that’s happened so many times, Jim can’t even try to count, but this time Jim knows he’s in love. This time the spark he feels in the space between them is real, is something that maybe Spock can feel too.  

The moment is stretching on forever, and at first Jim thinks that’s just his mind exaggerating things, but actually, Spock just isn’t moving. Like he’s stuck. His plush lips still slightly apart, no sound coming out. His eyes staring into Jim like he can see what’s there, and he’s just taking it all in, the way Jim was just doing. 

Jim thinks maybe he should say something. Or lead them back to some semblance of normality, like to the ready room to call fucking Starfleet again and sit through another fucking meeting to fill them in, or check up on if the crew scientists have picked any new information up from their own investigations. Fuck. Jim doesn’t want to do that.

Doesn’t want to just go straight to another meeting, another fucking ordeal that’s really just them talking circles until this whole thing finally explodes, and Jim and Spock can do what they do best, and handle it. 

Jim wants to reach out and grab Spock’s hands and rub circles into them. Wants to pull him into the observatory and lock the doors. Wants to turn off the lights so it’s just them and the stars to illuminate them. Wants to take Spock into his arms and sink into him and lose himself for a while. 

He wants Spock to be the one to start it. To take them there. 

He wants it so badly he can feel anticipation in his skin, so badly he can’t look away from Spock’s face, can’t help but imagine seeing want there, when really, all he can see is nothing. An enigma. His enigma.

Spock’s lips move, close for a moment, and it’s like the little current between them surges, their fuses blow, it’s breaking. “I do not believe anything will fall amiss, if we retire to the observatory for an hour or two, to rest.”

Jim’s breaking. Spock’s reaching out and lacing his fingers with the ones Jim was forcibly restraining. Jim’s standing up straight, he’s following Spock’s steps with ease, but he’s breaking. He’s collapsing in and out, on the inside, as on the outside everything remains the same. 

Spock’s skin is warm against his, as Jim breathes out “Yeah,” as Spock leads him away from here. His skin is warm, and solid, and Jim can feel the lines that run across his palms. There’s no electric current, there’s nothing connecting them except for flesh.

It doesn’t matter. The sentiment is still tearing through Jim like lightning. Strike after strike, he doesn’t understand how he’s staying upright. How he’s smiling easy as he and Spock share a silent look that means they aren’t going in there just to look at the galaxy. Can’t comprehend why his legs remain solid, that his feet are still touching the ground. 

He can’t feel what’s going on in the inside, in Spock. His enigma. He just sees those molten eyes and wants to not care. He squeezes Spock’s palm in his, still smiling, and leans against him as they get to the right door, feeling all off balance. In the best possible way.

“Hey Spock?” Jim says, as the door slides open.

“Yes, Jim?” As they stumble in together, and Jim is petting into Spock’s hair in the privacy of the room. 

“When this is all over, we should take some shore leave on Risa,” Spock almost, almost, rolls his eyes, reaching out and pulling off Jim’s gold sweater and black undershirt, uncannily gentle. “And me and you should go lay on one of the longer beaches, where it’s quiet, not full of annoying tourists, and just soak up some sun, relax. Drink some bloody marys, maybe you could bring your lute.” Spock is doing that thing where he’s looking annoyed, but really his eyes are crinkling, giving him away, because he thinks Jim is being kind of cute. 

Jim waits for Spock’s hands to fall to his waist, where they rub circles into the small of Jim’s back, where it aches from sitting up straight all day. Then Jim leans over to pull off Spock’s shirts, messing up his hair as much as he can as he tugs them off, giggling a little at the static induced spikes that form. Spock raises his eyebrows like he thinks Jim is immature, but the eyes below are warm and inviting and sparking shivers up and down Jim’s skin, the way they’re regarding him, so utterly fond.

“I have already told you, numerous times, that the idea of rest that isn’t rest is --”

“Shove it. Fine, then a vacation. You should  _ vacation _ there with me, not rest. Mister Literal…” Jim is grinning ear to ear.

“That word --”

“It’s literally defined as an extended period of recreation, Spock. Recreation is an activity, so it’s an accurate description of what I wanna do with you.”

“On Risa,” Spock is regarding Jim, holding Jim against his chest. It’s perfect.

“I mean, almost anywhere, honestly,” Jim smiles and nuzzles into the space between Spock’s neck and shoulder, placing light kisses there. When he pulls his head back up, Spock has his eyes narrowed. There’s three inches of space between their lips, and it’s a supernova. 

Spock suddenly tickles his sides, and ruins it, and Jim is scrambling backwards trying to get away from him. Even though, he really, really, really, doesn’t mind being trapped here. Between those warm arms, staring back, lost.

As soon as the tickling stops, it’s replaced with soft caresses, and Jim’s legs are backed into one of the tables. Then Spock is surging against him, kissing, and it’s.

Jim tangles his hands into Spock’s hair, holds him like he’s the single most precious thing that exists, flutters his eyes closed at the sight of Spock, here, his. 

The only light is the stars outside. The only sound is the hum of the Enterprise around them. The only feeling is this. Everything Jim cares about most, all at once, in this moment. 

He’s lost. He has Spock in his arms, and he’s lost. 

Dark hair, soft skin, under his hands. Bitten lips pressed against his. Lines of muscle moving with his. Everything gentle, everything too much. Jim is scrambling for purchase in that hair, then gripping harder against Spock’s shoulders, trying to find something to ground himself, as Spock lifts him up like he’s nothing, puts him on the table, slots between his legs. 

Jim wants more. Wants everything. Wants Spock to be his. 

Tries to flip them over, halfheartedly, and it doesn’t work because of course it doesn’t, the position’s all wrong for that, so he only manages to keep them upright, keep them from going horizontal. Wraps his legs around Spock’s hips like maybe that will make him feel more in control. Buries his face in Spock’s neck, for a reprieve, trying to gather himself, before he’s surging to meet Spock again, biting into his lips, pressing into his mouth, wishing Spock would say I love you, just once.

Spock is trembling against him, gripping him back now, unsteady too, and they’re both trying and failing to get a grip, lost. All sloppy desperation, like if they don’t hold on tight enough, the other one will slip away.

And it feels like they’re flying, soaring, gone from the world. Really floating in the stars, in this darkness. Like how they might’ve been as atoms, when the universe was first made, before they were ripped apart from each other. 

Fuck making Spock wait. Jim wants him now. 

They could die tomorrow. Today. Jim doesn’t want to have only part. Couldn’t live with losing Spock, even just a piece of him. Ever. 

Flashes of those memories that aren’t his, they never go away. Even when Jim forgets, one day, he’ll still remember the secondhand grief. That was too visceral to forget. Losing Spock, because Spock did what he always did, sacrificed himself without Jim having a chance in hell of winning that no win. Having Spock, without having him, without everything they share together. Knowing that even just that, is worth the universe and back, as long as Spock is alive, okay. Again. Once. Ever. 

Jim can relate to that feeling. He remembers seeing Spock, back around when they first met. He remembers caring so much, probably too much, already. And seeing her kiss him. Remembers thinking how good it was Spock was okay, managing, and the strange ache that Jim didn’t know was an ache until much later. The months after, the same pain echoing, all his. Yeah. He knows what it’s like to have Spock, and not have him. To know you’re his anyway. 

That as awful as it is, it’s okay, if it has to be. Because at least Spock is alive. Here. 

They’re floating and Jim’s stroking Spock’s face, reverent, wants all of him, forever. Wants them to be better than their fucked up universe. Better than their stupid counterparts that wasted years, that got Spock hurt, that almost lost him. 

There has to be a way to be better, to protect Spock from himself. 

There has to be a way, that this can work. 

That this can be simple.

It feels simple, right now. Spock is kissing against his neck, not biting, just moving his lips like he’s memorizing the contours and lines. They’re floating.

They’re floating.

They’re actually floating. “Spock! Spock.” Jim uses one hand to grab for the table they  _ were  _ on, his other arm wrapping around Spock’s waist protectively. Spock’s still lost, but once his eyes flutter to meet Jim’s, he realizes what’s going on.

If Spock were anyone else, he’d sigh.

They just got cockblocked by the gravity giving out. “What the fuck man.”

Spock’s eyes are severe enough for the both of them, and he leans against Jim, helping to move them toward something bolted down, so that they can navigate to the door and the intercom next to it. Jim thinks he feels one more soft press of lips against his shoulder, before Spock starts pulling them through the air, gripping the side of a countertop.

“You think it’s Neraidians, or just incompetence?” 

“I think Scotty may not have people doing their proper jobs.” 

“You’re not mad at him are you?”

Spock scoffs at the idea of him being mad, which just makes Jim laugh -- and wow does that not help the sudden flippy thing his stomach is doing. “I checked up on Engineering this morning. Maintenance was understaffed. Instead, most officers in that department were helping security, or aiding the science and communications departments with investigations. I expected we might have some hiccups with regular ship function, regarding the non-essentials.”

“You’re calling gravity a non-essential?”

“It’s not life support or defense.”

Jim throws out his hands in exasperation before he realizes what he’s done and clings back onto Spock. “Fair enough. Lets order them to fix this. I don’t need motion sickness on top of everything else for this evenings meetings.”

Spock leans against him, and Jim could swear he’s hiding a smile. “No, we wouldn’t want that.” It almost feels like Spock presses a kiss to the top his head, then they’re finally at the intercom and calling Rand to tell Engineering to sort this out.

 

\-------------------------

 

Nyota just wanted to sit back and enjoy her muffin, maybe boredly glance at the screen as the last few, hopefully, uneventful moments of security video flit by. She didn't particularly want the image of Christopher Pike being groped to be burned into her retina.

But here she was, images of a man she looked up to and considered the definition of impeccably respectful, being pushed through the transporter door with a hand down his pants and lips on his neck and -- yikes. It only lasted maybe fifteen seconds, before that particular event relocated to the hallway and thus another camera, another security feed she'd relegated to another communications officer. 

Then it was speeding up again, programmed to only slow down to double speed when life forms were on the sensor data, and Jim and Spock came up next, trailing right behind. Probably the last of the senior officers to return home, safe for a few security officers permanently on assignment planetside until further notice. 

Nyota took another bite of the absolutely lovely pistachio chocolate chip muffin Christine had stopped by her office this morning to give her. She'd delightfully mentioned Leonard helping her make them, since Medical's been so slow lately. Christine is always doing sweet things like this. Always so thoughtful.

Jim and Spock are, as expected, leaving like everyone else leaves the transporter room. 

Except, suddenly, they're not. Suddenly they've got their hands on each other. And Nyota just swallows -- no choking hazard here, and too delicious anyway -- figures the two of them are just hugging it out, or something. Jim seems like the handsy type.

Except they're not. They're really, really not. Spock bites into Jim's neck like he's got a point to make, and it's absolutely obscene, and Nyota has an abrupt urge to turn the computer off. 

That's probably where Jim got the bruise from earlier this week. Spock's been making a habit? That's...

The video continues and it's fine, it's fine, it's almost over, they’re mostly talking, they're almost out of the transporter room -- 

There's a noise behind her!

Nyota's probably two feet above her chair, startled, hands on the armrests poised to push off, muffin thrown onto the desk, and Leonard is standing there looking confused in the newly opened doorway, his hands full of two more of those green muffins and some kind of drink. She's lucky she didn't topple over, honestly.

Leonard looks like he's about to say something to calm her down, but the sounds of sped up moaning are coming from the computer now, and it drags both of their attention like some horrible catastrophe you can't look away from.

Jim's moaning. It's got to be Jim, Nyota knows Spock never gets that loud. That's. She's. 

Leonard is eerily calm and Nyota has a sudden pity for him, that the guy's got a best friend without any dignity, that the guy probably had to deal with that noise a lot in his life. 

Soon enough, Leonard is at her side, hands frozen up like he forgot about what's in them, and on screen Jim and Spock are back toward the transporter controls, and Spock is on Jim like they're getting ready to... and that's  _ so unprofessional _ ... and she's getting the overwhelming impulse to turn the computer off again. 

Leonard looks like he's going to do it for her, but before either of them move far enough to do so, the bewildering scene on screen moves again and Jim and Spock are stumbling out of the transporter room glued to each others sides, and the monitor is displaying an empty transporter room once again. Speeding up because it's empty, and then slowing to double speed again as some science ensign waddles off the transporter pad. 

Finally, much too late, Nyota leans forward and pauses it. She can hear Leonard sitting the food and drink he brought on the desk next to them, letting out some kind of noise between a sigh and a grumble, and maybe an awkward half squeak. She glances up at him, and he's looking at the muffins, like he doesn't know how to move back to whatever initial plan of conversation he'd had in mind when he’d decided to come visit in the first place.

He's, disturbingly, in Nyota's opinion, relatively unphased. For having to hear their fucking captain moan in surround sound at double speed. 

"So. Did you know they were dating?" Nyota throws out, flopping back in her chair, deciding she doesn't have the compassion right now to help Leonard sort out whatever his motives for coming to see her were. Plus. Elephant. In the room. 

He's quiet, looks like he's still processing, but really, Nyota could care less.

"They told you?" She, maybe, sounds a bit accusing. 

But to be fair, Spock has been hot and cold with her like whiplash ever since they broke up, even before they did, actually. And she's kind of feeling betrayed. Out of the loop. Like her best friend kept secrets, and lost her, only to end up with a loser -- which, okay, Jim isn't a loser, he's pretty great, but initial impressions die hard. And hearing his annoying breathing all hitched for Spock is kind of the most repulsive thing she can contemplate him doing. That's definitely not the way to make her feel like he's a decent match for anyone she cares about. At all. Unprofessional. Weird. 

Why.

Why did she just have to see that. 

Leonard is still quiet, and she's actually feeling like she might bubble up into anger now. Because really, she could care less what her captain and first officer get up to. But friends lying? Spock, and Leonard? And obviously Jim... why in the universe would they feel like they had to do that? 

"Hey now," he's starting, eyes meeting hers like a deer stumbled upon in a forest, suddenly tensed up, "I had no idea." 

Another beat passes, and Nyota must be glaring or something, because if anything Leonard's haunches just raise further. "Really! That's... well I don't really wanna talk about  _ that _ ," he's turning pointedly away from the paused monitor, and empathy hits Nyota, just for an instant, before she's crossing her arms. "I mean, Jim's always been too ... flirty," he's cringing on his words, and yeah, Nyota can imagine you would, when Jim's your best friend. 

Leonard falls to lean against the desk, looking down, like the energy has been sapped right out of him. "You know, I've been joking for ages, that they needed to admit their feelings." He looks far away, and huffs out an almost laugh, hardly there. Another little spike of sympathy goes through her, and she stops burning holes into him, a little. "Guess..." he shakes his head, "Can't believe they didn't tell us. Like we would care."

Nyota collapses too, sinking against her chair. At least, Leonard isn't a liar. 

She leans forward, grabs another one of those muffins, each one is bigger than a fist. "Is one of these for me?"

Leonard looks up, gives a tired smile, nods. "'Course. You've been working hard." 

"Thanks." She sets it down, picks up the first one she had, which upon noticing, Leonard gives a rather peculiar look to. Then he's pulling up a chair next to her and shaking his head again. 

"Leave it to Jim to steal my thunder," he's muttering, before, "Spock didn't tell  _ you  _ they were dating?" 

"Nope."

"Wonder why they've been mum about it. Odd."

"Definitely."

"Well uh... in other news, Jim said the Neraidians want to harvest souls. Not sure what that means, but. Apparently it's still smart to be scraping through these videos for any more intruders."

Nyota starts eating again, glancing over at the monitor, wondering how many more yeomen she could commandeer to help out. They need to be doing this a lot faster. "Captain is going to be pissed when he finds out his sex life is all over the ship by tomorrow."

"Why? It’s not like we're gonna -- they probably don't want people to know, if they didn't tell us...?"

"That's not what I mean. I'm not the only one going through these feeds. If they did this in any other rooms. Well." She throws her hands out. 

All of a sudden, Leonard's laughing. Full on bent in half on his chair, chortling. Then he's looking up at her, shaking his head again. "Serves him right, he should know better then to romance someone in public. Like this hasn't happened over and over the last few times we've had pretty people as guests. Like when he took, what was her name? Eleanor? To the observatory." 

Nyota can't help but giggle a little too. "Her name was 'Lenore'! And that was such a sad mission, don't remind me." She shoves his shoulder, almost smiling when he laughs some more.

Finally, once he's all the way upright again, "Alrighty, you know what?" He's throwing another look at the monitors, then leaning forward for the stuff he brought, before making to stand. "I think you've done enough work for a while, missy." He's looking down at her and dipping his head. "Come get some air, we can take a little breather in the gardens. Put someone else on this." 

Nyota knows she has her eyebrows raised, and she's more than a little stunned when Leonard shuffles everything to one arm and uses the other to hold out a hand. "C'mon. Really. Christine says you haven't left this room in almost a day." 

His hand is still there, firm, waiting. He's looking down at her, expectant, eyes soft, patient. There's really nothing to do but take his hand, eventually, and let herself be pulled up. 

She's rewarded with a dazzling little smile, all gentleness. "World won't fall apart without you for a few hours." 

She's shaking her head, and suddenly Nyota can feel the tension leaving her back. Like finally, just now, she’s given herself permission to relax. 

Everything is heavy. Her emotions harsh, leaden, frazzled. Her body aching and knotted up and fatigued. Leonard's free arm slides from her hand to her back, and she's leaning into it on instinct, suddenly beyond grateful. 

She feels like herself again. Past tired, and way too on edge from two days of whiplash, but herself. No fairies in here. No telepaths. Just her. 

"Okay. But just for a little while."

They're walking out of the office, Nyota pausing a moment to comm someone to take over for her, then moseying on down the hall, at a nice, easy pace. 

 

\-------------------------

 

Spock waits for Solari to leave Pike’s quarters, for those few opportune minutes in which the man will not be flanked by psychic guards, will be isolated.

This is the only way. 

He already knows the General will not submit, will not spare lives. Solari is not a difficult creature to read.

Spock could wait, for Admiral Pike to call a meeting after this, or call for help, if he’s been hurt. Perhaps they would contact Starfleet and inform them of troops, coming through the stable looking glass on the planet below, that for some reason the Enterprise cannot detect. Solari could order those fairies to use that magic, though. Then there may be nothing to wait for.

Spock does not know how one takes a soul, utilizes it as a near limitless power source. But they do. And for all Spock can fathom, it may be as easy as taking the officers down below, the vulnerable exposed employees at the Science Complex. Suddenly, lives lost, suddenly, the Enterprise and Vulcan diplomats, casualties. Then the neighboring star systems, the quadrant, maybe everything, like some plague, some swarm of locusts casting out from one central point to consume and destroy. 

It is illogical to wait. 

There is a chance this impulsivity is emotionally motivated, but Spock doubts that. Still, it is worth considering, as all good ideas should be approached from all angles. It’s just. When Sylon spoke to him, and praised him for his violence during the Narada incident, all was made bare. How compromised all Vulcans are, must be, in some degree, at present. To even contemplate applauding that. To actually be considering it logical. 

Perhaps, even, it was. But Spock has been around Vulcans for a majority of his life, and never in his past have they ever approved of behavior that even skimmed the edge of Surakian values. Let alone pressed beyond them. He has done a vast majority of the things in his life impeccably rationally. And still the smallest hints of rage, regardless of their actual part in his actual actions, have made peers completely disavow him. He thinks back to the Vulcan Science Academy, the panel of Academics, of hypocrites. 

Now they are all hypocrites, moreso. They are finding that Spock was right all along. The smart ones. And still further, some are speeding past him, into territory he cannot comprehend. A new rationale, a new mode, whereby violence beyond bodily self defense is at times appropriate. 

It is still defense, in Spock’s mind, at least for Spock. The way he personally goes about it, the way he’s meticulously broken certain rules, to accomplish what he must as a Commander of the Enterprise -- until or unless such a point is reached, that he may morally chose to step down because it is no longer right. But, he considers all things done so far, right. He has never expected anyone else to agree. Spock knows he threw away the right to fit in, when he left for Starfleet. 

But now they’re throwing it away, and somehow they’re allowed to stay. And Spock isn’t sure they know if what they do has reason, is right. But they are often hypocrites, and so he cannot tell them so. 

He does not believe he is acting out of fear, or anger.

It must be impulsive. That is unavoidable. This will be the only time Solari will be alone, vulnerable. Spock has run through all potential possibilities, and this will be the safest way.

Around the corner, Spock can hear the door of Pike’s cabin slide open. All is silent. 

Momentarily, Spock wonders if Pike has been injured.

Then there are footsteps, and it is fortunate that they are approaching the place Spock stands. He will not have to move, will not have to give his position away.

Solari turns the corner, and Spock has his hands against Solari’s skull before he has any time to react. 

Hands that seem eons stronger then the muscles suggest seize onto his shoulders, and it feels like a cargo shuttle has crashed into them, but he keeps his grip tight, presses his mind inside --

And the strength is sapped out, Solari is weak, Spock is pressing him against the wall to keep him in place, and Solari is using what energy he has to push against the invasion into his mind. But he isn’t telepathic, has no psychic ability, and it’s easy to slip through. Multitudes of flashes, thoughts, dreams, things that have happened, things that might, surreal and concrete and fleeting all crashing through at once. 

Solari is collapsed in his arms, sliding down the wall -- they both are -- on the ground now. And Spock could collapse too. The only thing keeping him upright is the connection, the immediate unending consciousness streaming into him and filling him as he reaches in, keeping his hands anchored to Solari’s face, keeping him from falling apart. 

It’s too much. Neraidian minds aren’t very compatible, it's all screams and streaks, it’s looking straight into the sun, going blind, trying to map out particular sunspots as your eyes burn out. 

He focuses.

It’s so bright. It hurts.

There is a universe within a universe, a game, a simulated reality. Thousands upon thousands of humans trapped within it, living simulated lives wherin they lose whatever they care about, over and over, until there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Void. They have nothing left, so they lose what is left -- them. Machines outside the false reality, swirling and bright, so bright, pure white light, every color all at once, it’s them. They don’t exist anymore. They’re just magic. Just fuel for Neraidian fodder. 

There is a king that sits upon a throne in the sky, and keeps dying, and being replaced by his murderer. There is a dragon -- or maybe many dragons -- he worships, they worship, named Sol. A sun. Bright and burning just like their minds. 

Spock can barely breathe. He focuses.

There is a shortage. Lights blinking out. Power struggles, more people dying, fighting, killing each other. Each one wants more magic, more power, enough to survive, to save themselves. There are more below, who don’t have enough either, but they are not dying over it. Only the top. 

There is a woman and she is made of fury, Solari is all warmth as she flashes in his mind. She is slaughtered -- no, she is alive, it is someone else, someone before her, who dies. She is alive, and Solari is the one with his head lobbed off, stuck on the top of a spiked rail, a message of what will happen to the next king. The next person who tries to be. 

There is fear there. He needs more. More. Or it will rain blood.

His mind is not coherent. He is drifting into sleep, unable to stand the assault as Spock ravages through him. 

There are ships, not magic, technology. A whole fleet, waiting on the other side. Armies, following whoever is at the top. They want more. The fairy realm is dying, overused, greedy. The fairy realm is dying, has leeched on like parasites to the humans below them. But they aren’t allowed to anymore. The one who is king likes the humans there, is part human. 

Part human. Part human. 

Spock is burning. He focuses. 

They are here because the humans here are not precious. Not to Solari. 

To Spock. Spock is the king. Spock is the half human who doesn’t want them to hurt any more humans, would rather they suffered and ended up dying like all who become unable to adapt. Solari wishes he would finish burning up, and his mind is like daggers all through where Spock spreads through it. 

He focuses. He sees focus loom back, iron will, iron that makes fairies skin melt apart. Sees Neraidians in droves, more and more, so many more then those thousands of humans trapped in artificial plays being used up. Sees how they die and just come back, how they replace each other like flies, never gone, never stopped. Sees them stretch across the galaxy just like he thought they might, in his own mind. 

Spock can’t just take their plans and leave it at that, react. It’s not enough. Solari struggles in his mind, wild thrashing that’s all energy but no direction. Spock can see how the Ambassador pleaded with him, his uncle, Solari, to not do this. To do something else. Sees the General contemplate, consider stealing dilithium instead, consider conventional warfare for resources, rather than total annihilation. 

Ultimately, he thinks humans are too bothersome, not important enough to lose lives over, to fight fair with, they’re insects to him. To most of them. And stones run out, humans can reproduce, replenish, endless supply, a whole galaxy full of them. Spock feels magic through his veins, through Solari’s veins, like he’s filled to the brim with souls, with katras. A Neraidian mind is like the whole Vulcan collective, surging and alive and full. But the thoughts are all silent, all company but the company is ghosts, being drained up and used to make Solari alive. 

Spock feels a gaping in his own mind where everyone used to be, where he never felt alone even when he left for Earth, even when they stopped talking to him, where he only felt their silent presence, but he still felt it and it felt like  _ this _ . Remembers the well worn place where his mother linked to his mind, how Solari has never felt that. Solari doesn’t know what that is like, a real bond. Connections. 

Solari is only feeling it for the first time now, as Spock consumes him, and it’s so diametrically opposed to how it ought to feel, under more normal circumstances. 

Spock is trying to focus but he’s losing himself, the Neraidian mind is pulling at his -- un-telepathic but with an inherent compatibility with other’s thoughts, like a magnet it’s dragging his own memories through the link, to the forefront, and Spock didn’t give him this. Didn’t plan to give any of this. He remembers his mother. 

He tries to focus, fortifies himself, feels Solari’s mind spiral into ever more chaos as Spock loses his place in it. 

Solari will devour it all. 

Spock pulls away, enough, nearly collapsing as his hands disconnect. 

He’s breathing in and out fast, finally able to again, pinches Solari’s neck even though the man is asleep, because Spock needs him to be properly under, needs to be sure. 

The only way to get the Neraidians to stop is to threaten them. 

Like Romulans, indeed.

Solari would have the Enterprise destroyed, blown into microscopic parts by his telekinetic guards. That is what Spock saw. 

He saw a possibility, a stream of thought, of Pike being taken to the looking glass, of Starfleet being told to stay away if they wanted him back. And then that stream dry up, because someone, some monster, touched Jim’s mind remotely, and gleamed that all of them would rather die, and Starfleet would have them die, rather than submit. 

Solari is on the ground, unconscious. Spock saw him put everyone to sleep, and pull out their life, and then sweep across to do the same to Vulcan. And then as the rest of the galaxy remained in the dark, blind to what was going on, continue. Another stream, where Vulcan is avoided, because they are dangerous, they can see inside people too, and his nephew wishes them to be spared. 

The Neraidians would get nowhere taking hostages. Grow tired of pretending to play nice, to be on an equal level. 

Hostages would work on them, though. 

Solari is important. He is near the top, the king. The king wants him alive. Wants most of them alive. Celest would make deals to keep him safe, to keep most of them safe. Would get their king to agree to make this universe’s people off limits, too. If it was the only way to protect the Neraidians here. 

If.

Spock needs iron.

 

\-----------------------------

 

In most respects, the Vulcan diplomats have reached the same conclusions as Spock. He isn’t sure if that is moreso evidence that what he’s doing is right, or just an implication of how different these new thinking Vulcans are from their elders. 

The Ambassador is a wild card he had not expected, however.

When Spock reaches the planet, on Starfleet’s complex, Sybok is already initiating his own plan of action. 

Spock would scold himself for not realizing the opportunity sooner, but what is, is, and he must move on. 

The Ambassador has rarely been flanked by telepathic guards. In fact, he has often been completely alone, or with only Vulcans, unperturbed by being isolated from his comrades. He has stolen several sets of wrist cuffs, made of indecipherable metals, that react to the commands of the thoughts of the person who places them onto someone -- remarkably compatible with natural Vulcan talents, it’s intuitive to use. They serve as a kind of handcuffs, and the most impressive part of the design, they null all telepathic and magical abilities of the wearer until removed. 

Celest has given Sylon them. And Sylon is thinking down the same line as Spock. 

The plan is straightforward. The Neraidians aim to attack, anyway, Spock has seen it. Knows they’ve made up their mind, mostly. It is advantageous though, that they have Solari. It will make things easier.

Mr Scott is sitting by the holding cells right now, jerry rigged iron cage inside the cell, soldered into the ground, around Solari’s sleeping body. He’s been ordered to keep a phaser trained on the General, if he wakes. Jim doesn’t know yet.

It is somewhat unnerving, that Celest is helping them. He is sitting in this room in the Science Complex, with Spock and the other Vulcan diplomats, and the Starfleet officers in charge of this base. He is holding Sylon’s hand, offering stability. Connected. “That’s good, that you have Solari,” he is saying. Spock understands him but there is an itching under Spock’s skin, nerves, because he thinks it is maybe too opportunistic, that the Ambassador would choose to help them, when Solari is his family. Surely there is some doubt as to his loyalties. 

Sylon doesn’t seem to doubt them in the slightest though. And the other diplomats follow suit.

“The trick is, you need to get these cuffs on the people in charge before they’ve got a chance to react. The ones in red can crush you, set you on fire, or throw you higher than a fall you’d survive from, if they get a chance. The ones in purple can just explode you outright -- but they’ll probably spend more energy making sure no one can get close to the red ones, if they don’t feel too threatened. And the ones in white, just don’t get too close -- they’re healers, so mostly they’re just there in case somehow the leaders get hurt, but they know their poisons. So don’t even bother going near them. Mostly, the leaders are the ones in red. Solari and Nazaren, and one in purple, Josuya. But he’ll be too hard to cuff anyway, unless he’s open -- if you get close to anyone, especially a psychic, and you think you can cuff em, do it. It’ll stop their magic, then everyone’ll be easier to manage.”

Sylon lets Celest wrap up his explanation, then speaks as if he has any right to be in charge. “Maybe we could tell them we have Solari, get them to move to try and take him back, and then capture a few more of them.”

Spock is dubious, and he is not the only one, silent critical looks narrowing in on Sylon from around the room. “I am glad you have obtained a method of subduing them, but I believe the planning should be left to those with experience in these matters.” The other diplomats fold easily, agreeing with Spock’s logic. The officer in charge of the complex, an Andorian, folds their arms, terse, because they know how these things can go. There is never anything easy about it.

The Ambassador is still here, and frankly Spock doesn’t believe that is the safest course of action. But to make him leave would be to give him an opportunity to double turn-coat, and just fill the Neraidians in instead. 

Celest pipes up again. “If you capture the generals, and me, you can make the generals order everyone else to stand down. They’ve got to follow Solari and Nazaren’s orders, since we’re cut off from the king. You could have them order the rest back. Could tell them to send a message like ‘you won’t get your generals back, unless you agree to never come back’.” Sylon is glaring at Celest, sudden, and the Neraidian corrects his words. “Or, to not come back unless they agree to be peaceful.” The Ambassador lets go of Sylon’s hand, and the tension between them is palpable in the room, the other diplomats are perplexed. “But it’s smarter to tell them to stay gone. To tell them worse will happen if they come back. Regardless of if you mean it, of if it’s fair.” Sylon is like stone, trying to be expressionless, but the way he holds his eyes reveals a fury there. “Fairies aren’t trustworthy. Never assume they are.”

“Noted.” Sylon picks up on the pointed way Spock says it, redirects his bubbling rage. 

One of the Starfleet officers present decides to add to the conversation. “How are we going to get the generals to order that, though? Couldn’t they, like you said, just order someone to blow us up instead?” 

There’s a collective murmur of agreement that surges through the room. 

“That’s where I can help,” Spock thinks Celest may have helped enough, it’s worrisome to be relying on such an unpredictable set piece. “I’m a singer. Only one they brought. I can do pretty much anything a psychic can do, if I’m speaking in the right tone. Even if they’ve got a psychic shielding them. I could lure Nazaren away, maybe the psychics flanking him, so we could cuff them. That’s easier than trying to get him and Solari, which is what Sylon and I thought would have to be done, initially. Once we’ve got them all together, I can convince them. It’s…  my talent.”

Spock doesn’t doubt it for a second. 

There’s another collection of murmurs, most more skeptical. But Spock remembers earlier, feeling the anguish just because the Ambassador pushed it through his words. And the banquet, where he danced with Nyota, and his singing basically intoxicated everyone present, making them warm and off balance. If he really has the same effect regardless of protections, then there’s no doubt it would be enough. 

But if it’s not, or the generals find a way around it, then everyone may die. 

Just another day.  

 

\---------------------------

 

It’s nineteen hundred, and Jim is eating dinner alone, because Spock’s been AWOL since the gravity fiasco. Maybe he’s filing paperwork -- but then he’d be here, because Jim already did most of Spock’s for him this morning. Or at meetings for Jim, since Jim must not need to be there, if Spock didn’t tell him. 

Mostly he’s just confused. And maybe feeling a little off center after so many days glued to Spock’s side. And not even on the bridge, since they’ve been docked here. He’s gone to his chair, twice, just to pretend to supervise while really nothing was happening, because he’d been tired of the Neraidians and just wanted to feel normal again for a while. Like he was in space proper. 

A planet filling up most of the view screen mostly killed that attempt at self delusion. Now Scotty’s stuck with the same miserable mockery for the next two days, doctor’s orders. Ha.

Jim’s just about to bite into a bacon cheese olive burger when Bones slams down into the seat next to him and grumbles as loud and obnoxious as he can. As soon as Jim looks up, attention grabbed, Bones is slamming down his own plate of salad and grilled chicken, making a point of it. 

“W’a’s up?” He’s talking around a mouthful of food, before setting his burger down as he chews, just to be annoying.

Bones doesn’t even grace him with an answer, just sighs, like Jim is the biggest disappointment in his life. Biggest disappointment in the universe. What a great friend, filling the role of disappointed shitty father as a free bonus feature. He’s already got Pike on board, Bones could stand to show a little more sympathy. 

“And before you ask, no, I haven’t got an update yet. Pike’s supposed to call me and Spock once it’s over.”

Bones looks like he isn’t sure what to do with himself, staring at Jim pointedly -- still trying to demand something -- then staring away, burning holes into the table. Then they're back to Jim, as he's stabbing into his salad with a fork. But he’s not bringing any food up to his mouth to eat. Jim is kind of scared what Bones might do once he picks up his knife.

“What’s going on man?” He props his elbows on the table, leans on his joined hands, waits. Figuring one of them ought to be relaxed and civil.

A noise comes out, that would normally be a grumble, but instead is more like a puff of air, like Spock, and then Bones kind of lets go of the rigid way he’s holding himself up. Moves to fold his arms, lean back in his chair, trying to match Jim’s tone. 

Jim can wait. Grabs a fry from his plate and eats absently as he does -- and that gets him another scowl, but a more harmless, everyday kind of one. 

Bones picks up his fork again like maybe he’s going to start eating too, then drops it right back down, crossing his arms proper. 

“Seriously,  _ what _ ?"

“Where’s Spock?”

“Uh. Not here, obviously.” 

“Why do you always have to be a smartass, it’s not an attract -- not a good trait in a captain, you know.”

“Well, I’m not a very conventional captain.”

“No, s’pose not.”

“It’s served us well so far, I figure I must be doing something right,” Bones smiles a little, then, and Jim knows the weirdness he sat down with is finally fleeting. 

“So, how long have you and Spock been together?”

“I just told you man, he’s not here.” 

Bones leans forward then, almost conspiratorial, giving another gentle smile. “I mean, bonehead, how long have you two been dating?”

Jim can hear other crewmen trudging in and out of the mess hall, the sound of chairs squeaking as they get pulled in, pushed out. Hears someone sucking loudly through a straw. Part of him wants to laugh. But Bones is serious, Jim can tell by the set to his eyes, how they're locked onto Jim’s. 

This isn’t something he’s going to be able to play off. Not here. Not with Bones being so observant about it. Fuck. “We aren’t dating.”

Fuck Bones. Fuck Leonard H. McCoy and his stupid badly concealed compassion and his stupid stern face and his stupid all seeing baby blues. Fuck him. 

They aren’t saying anything -- though Jim can hear Janice Rand’s loud voice across the hall, complaining about how bad the replicator coffee is, and why is she always drinking coffee at night? It’s bad enough Jim does it -- and Bones is somehow still showing, without doing anything at all, that he thinks Jim is spewing a load of shit. 

Finally, he guesses, Bones can’t take the not-talking anymore. He’s always been big on communication, he’s got like, a degree in psychology. Maybe that’s got something to do with it. Then again, he’s not very sensitive about personal subjects either, so. 

At least when it comes to Jim. Or maybe he just thinks Jim doesn’t appreciate sugar coating. Which, true. Usually, but not this time. 

“You’re not?” Bones doesn’t believe him one bit. So, he was definitely asking seriously, then.

“No.” It’s taking all the control Jim’s got to resist crossing his own arms, resist revealing just how defensive he’s feeling. 

“Oh. Well, okay.” Bones leans back in his seat again, contemplating something. “How long have you two been fooling around, then?”

Jim is glad he stopped eating. Choking right now wouldn’t be a very dignified thing to do. “What the fuck, Bones?”

“I know,” Bones is dandy as ever, if anything he just looks gently concerned, and no. Jim doesn’t want that. Fuck that. “Jim, you know, you’re supposed to tell the CMO if you get involved with an officer. You and Spock are both supposed to, actually. So I’m kind of annoyed I’ve been left in the dark, ‘specially since you always moon about him to me. Figured I’d be the first person you’d brag to.”

Jim can’t take it anymore, he folds. Pulls his hands to his lap, clasps them, glares, back pressed tight against his own chair. 

“Now I know why you didn’t tell me.” Bones sighs, shakes his head, pitying, and Jim hates it. “You’re not dating.”

“No.”

“You know, technically, you still should’ve told me. Because a CMO still needs to know, because if you two blow up now because of some internal drama, it could compromise the whole ship. And, you should have told me, because I’m your friend, Jim.”

Jim resists the urge to sink down into his chair, or to push up and storm off. “Well, now you know. Anyway, it’s just a. Physical thing. Nothing’s really changed,” and the look Bones is giving him hurts, it’s so open, so sympathetic, but Jim forces himself to keep facing it. Keep staring him down, keep looking strong. “If it gets serious, I’ll let you know. That’s when I planned to let you know, cause that’s when we’d need that whole couples evaluation bullshit, anyway.” Jim wants nothing more than to let go, can’t. 

“I’m sorry Jim.” Bones knows, everything’s changed.

“Shut up, don’t --”

“I get it. You didn’t want to risk scaring him away.” Jim can’t take this. “But rules weren’t designed to protect people’s feelings…”

“Yeah.” Jim’s moving to cross his arms, hold himself up. “Well, now you know. So we’re good here. Unless it changes, and we gotta get a proper eval. I’ll let you know.” This needs to shut down, stop. It’s too much.

“You really shoulda known better. Goddamn, Jim. You’re gonna get your heart broken, playing yourself like this.”

“We are done talking about it.”

“You can’t just wax poetic about him, every goddamn day, forever, and then just act like this is enough for you.” Bones has no place to make assumptions. No place. His experience is a failed marriage, and a string of lovers he can’t keep for more than a month, and yeah maybe Jim isn’t doing much better, but Jim never made someone he loved hate him so much they won’t even see him anymore. God, he hopes he never does that. That’d be even worse than breaking up. Losing that. “Does Spock know you want to get more serious, eventually?”

“What does serious even mean? Really? It’s, I. Aghhhh! We are done talking about this!”

“You know what I fucking mean. You love the guy.” Jim wants space to swallow him up, turn him into the cosmos, take him back to a few hours ago where it was just him and Spock and safety. “Did you tell him?”

“...” Jim can’t bear to look at those blue eyes anymore. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“God, Jim.”

Jim could pick at his fries. But he’s not hungry anymore. This is pointless. Dinner is pointless. Fuck everything. 

“Just… don’t hurt yourself, okay? Spock can be a heartless son of a … sometimes. You know what he did to Uhura. How cold he was about it. Don’t delude yourself… is all I’m saying. Know it is what it is. It… it ain’t more then that. If you didn’t think he’d be able to give you what you want back, maybe, think about why you tried to do this in the first place.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Jim feels something inside him break. “You think I don’t know that he might not. That this might be all I can have. That this is all I can get out of him. Why do you think I did this? I’m tired of wondering. I’m done, Bones. I want -- wanna see if there’s anything there. 

Yeah. I fucking know. I know this was stupid. That I’m just dragging out all the unknowing. But it’s what I want right now. I want it for as long as it’ll last. Maybe that’s fucking selfish, maybe it’d be better to get it over with and figure out if this is just another stupid crush I’ve gotta bury. But you know what? I’m a selfish person. And I don’t want to risk giving this up yet.”

Those blue eyes looking at him are sad again. Soft, and sad. “Okay.” 

There’s a moment, where Bones just lets Jim take some time to ground himself again. Jim doesn’t.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt, is all.” 

“I’m not naive. Don’t worry about me."

“That’s what friends are for, bonehead.” 

“...You’re the bonehead, Bones,” he rolls his eyes, they both do, and Bones cringes at the shitty pun.

“Whether you’re ready or not. If this keeps on, or gets more serious, I do have to make sure you don't get compromised.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“So, make sure it’s not a risk to you.”

“I’m trying.”

 

 


	6. I want to help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, we’re okay?” It worries Jim that Spock isn’t giving declarative answers. That Spock only ‘mm’s in response, moving a knight on the setup between them. “Then look at me, Spock.” 
> 
> Or, literally: The Enterprise faces off against the Neraidians, Spock isn't well, and Jim tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of Jim’s time on Tarsus IV, if you squint. Sulu's plants from the TOS episode The Man Trap are mentioned too. Also I feel like Jim’s definitely dancing around telling Spock I love you, and some things he says are definitely him trying to almost say it. Which is why the quote ‘Let me help’ doesn’t quite feature in this chapter. Because to Jim, those words do mean I love you, entirely, explicitly, and that might be too much for him right now to say out loud. 
> 
> Inspirations:  
> “And you think my bruised knees are sort of pretty  
> And I think your tired eyes are kind of nice  
> And when I first met you, there was a garden  
> Growing from a black hole in my mind” - Garden by Halsey

There are fairies in handcuffs on his bridge.

Scotty won’t say exactly how that happened, but he knows. Sulu and Chekov are as in the dark as him, and for once Bones is still in the sick bay and not breathing down his neck, because it’s too damn early.

It’s so early. It just passed midnight. Jim won’t be getting any sleep for a while, apparently.

There are three fairies in handcuffs on his bridge, strangely stiff, like they’re paralyzed or something, and Scotty’s on deck brandishing what might be an iron sword in one hand, a phaser in the other. Spock’s got the same configuration going on.

“Hey, can I have one?” Chekov elbows Sulu for throwing that out, then looks to Jim too, hopeful.

“No.”

Spock has some fucking explaining to do.

A lot sure did happen in the small space of a few, miserable, hours, in which Kirk went to Pike and talked, came up with nothing but more trails leading nowhere. Checked on Giotto, who also had shit all to say worth mentioning, then tried to go nap for a few hours. But that ended up pointless, since Jim’s been spoiled rotten with a living heated pillow lately and it felt weird to not wait up for him.

Now Giotto is in the transporter room, coordinating, trying to evacuate what’s left of personnel in the Science Complex down below, and what’s left of the Vulcan diplomats.

Sylon is already here, along with some Vulcan woman Jim never got properly introduced to, both standing near the prisoners with their hands tense, ready for something.

Jim walks over to where Spock is standing, subtly more in command then Jim right now, and says under his breath “Just when were you gonna fill me in?”

“We had to act fast,” is all he gets by way of an excuse. Jim could strangle him, almost. Sometimes. He’s glaring just the slightest bit, still hovering near Spock so it remains private, waiting for something better to come out of Spock’s lips. “Help me move them to the ready room.”

This is going to be a hell of a time, writing the field report. Spock has gone and kidnapped some people, excellent. Stupendous.

Random. Jim’s helping him, anyway. Because that’s how he is, and he might as well. They get the fairies into the ready room, and Scotty and Spock hand off the swords and phasers to some actual security personnel that come in to join them, and then they’re turning on the comm to contact the planet surface.

What ends up happening, is a mess. A cohesive, well intended, small mess. Expected mess, maybe, in Spock’s opinion.

For some reason the Generals are ordering their people to stand down, not attack, and to go back through that hole in the ground they built on the planet. To go home. It goes about as well as Jim would have guessed.

One of the Neraidians in purple, they assume command, and they’re not just letting the Enterprise get away with this.

Spock and Jim decide, it’s best, maybe, to just zoom off out of this star system, and regroup once their captives are farther away from the epicenter. Apparently, Spock -- and Pike, cause apparently, he fucking told Pike but not Jim -- have already called ahead, to Headquarters, and told them they’re bringing guests. It’s fucking fantastic, being out of the loop.

There’s problems with just leaving, of course. The planet is no longer inhabited, but the Neraidians and their damn transdimensional hole would remain. There’s nothing necessarily stopping the aliens from following them, or just acting, unchecked.

Spock seems to think they won’t invade without their leaders though, the Generals.

Maybe not. But they do attack.

Jim is ordering the Enterprise to selectively target the phasers in a circle around the Neraidian camp. Not kill anyone, just collapse in their base. They’ve got wings, and magic, they can get out of the way. But if Jim’s lucky, their little hole will get buried under the rubble. Jim isn’t sure that’s how transdimensional physics works, exactly, but he can always ask Scotty later, when there’s time for a better plan.

He missed sitting in his chair, at any rate.

“They’re in pursuit, Captain,” Sulu is firing off.

“Life forms are no longer detected on the surface, sir.” Chekov is following right after, hands darting from the scanners to the steering and back, constant repeat.

So, the Neraidians are abandoning their base.

Spock is standing at his side, a hand on the back of his chair, eyes trained on the view screen.

Jim puts on the ship wide intercom, “Giotto to bridge, bring five security personnel, secure the passengers in the ready room,” then flicking it off and glancing at Scotty, “Get to your station, I want to know what’s going on.”

Scotty is on it, sliding in and bringing up the information Jim needs, figures flashing and scrolling past him, at ease. “Reading a disturbance on the planet, hole’s no longer shielded. Giving off unstable signals, might be collapsing now that the fairies aren’t there to man it! Looks like a wormhole now, fading off like one.” There’s a sudden jolt, and everyone’s knocked sideways, Spock gripping onto Jim’s chair and pulling back upright.

Jim can see Giotto and his backup moving into the ready room, the door closing behind them.

“Incoming message, Captain,” Uhura looks over, and Jim nods, then it’s getting patched through.

“Attention Enterprise. Return Solari Sycay and Nazaren Ferahel, immediately. Lower your shields and respond. This is the last time we will ask.” A ship is coming up on the view screen, small, like a shuttle carrier, but narrowed for greater speed capability. Still, pathetic compared to the Enterprise.

“The ship isn’t on our radar, sir,” Chekov is already adjusting the settings, for heat, for radiation, spatial disturbance, anything to compensate. Shaking his head because nothing is making a difference. “We’ve only got visual.”

Don’t lose sight of them, then. “Sulu, keep them in front of us.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Spock?” He made the decision to get them into this mess, he better have prepared for it. Maybe this’ll teach the fucker to leave Jim out of the loop.

“Their magic is limited the farther they get from their source. They have no source once that wormhole fades.” So, they’re on a time crunch. No wonder they were so desperate for souls, fuckers can’t seem to function without their fancy smancy powers.

“I believe the Generals will be less of a threat on board once that occurs. The Ambassador explained that they only retain their core advantage, which in their case will be brute strength. The handcuffs null that.”

“Great.” Why is Spock trusting another fairy’s explanations? That’s a question for another time, when the Enterprise isn’t getting jerked. “Ay! What’s pulling us?”

Sulu is shrugging, moving to try and compensate. Scotty is looking up new data, brows furrowed, stressed.

“They are.” Sulu isn’t making a difference, they’re still getting closer to that pathetic excuse for a ship.

“Increase shields.”

“That’s not it,” Spock is saying by his ear, “It’s not a tractor beam, it’s their magic. That will not make a difference.”

Jim nods, “Sulu, kick us into reverse, hard, see if we can’t jerk out of this.”

It doesn’t work.

Figures.

Like a magnet, a superconducting magnet, they’re being dragged in closer. Or maybe the tiny ship is. Either way, the Enterprise sways again, suddenly, and Jim knows it’s a hit. They’re hitting his ship.

Spock can’t take it anymore, he kicks an ensign off the science console and starts sorting through data himself, figuring he’s more use that way. Rather then, perhaps, explain what’s going on to Jim. What he knows. If he expected this. If he prepared.

If he didn’t fucking prepare, Jim is going to throttle him. Leave it to Spock to act so superior he doesn’t even let his own captain in on the plans he makes, then not even bother to actually execute them better -- or even as well -- as he would if only he’d involved Jim in the first place, like he should have.

Scotty isn’t going to like this. “Scotty, can you increase the power from our engines.” There’s a crease on his forehead, always getting deeper, but he’s learned now not to mention how difficult Jim’s demands can be.

“We’re at full capacity now, Sulu --”

“Sulu?” Jim adds.

“Not making a difference, sir.”

“That’s why we need more force, we need to snap out of this.” Scotty nods, resigned.

“We could hit them, sir.” Chekov is not looking happy with the readings in front of him.

“No, we’re fine. We don’t need to resort to that,” yet. Jim looks over to Spock, making sure. Like clockwork, Spock looks up from his monitor, and the look that meets him confirms that nonviolence is the safest course, at present.

Eventually, there is a turning point. A break.

Scotty’s left for Engineering, doing some on the fly adjustments to crank up their ability to jump into warp against this incredibly intense force yanking them in, and it works. The Enterprise jerks and it’s throwing everyone off balance, but they get out of range, and suddenly the Enterprise is flying normally again, some outer panels ripped off and flitting away as they’re speeding off, and Jim orders Sulu to slow them down so they can take stock.

The Neraidian ship is just barely in the view screen, still, and Jim magnifies it.

“Their ship is stationary,” Spock is saying, and for some reason Jim just knows the silent implications, the additional conclusions Spock has jumped to with so little information, because Jim has too. They’re both good, at this.

“Their ship never had any power.”

“So what, just magic?” Sulu is muttering, completely befuddled over how that technology over there, drifting dead in space, is supposed to work.

Chekov is loosening his grip on his console, readying for the next potential wave of action.

Jim really did miss this. This part. So much better than diplomatic bullshit. By eons.

Though technically, it’s still some kind of bullshit. They’ve got prisoners, and Jim isn’t entirely sure they have a right to have taken them. Yeah, if they’d had due cause and been threatened explicitly, maybe. But really, the Neraidians only attacked the Enterprise because they’d made the first move, took their leaders. What the fuck is Spock thinking?

What the fuck is Pike thinking, to have approved this? Jim wants to trust that they’ve made sound decisions, but it’s hard, without all the facts. That will be later, though. Later.

“We can’t leave yet,” Jim is saying, orders Sulu to keep them at this distance, wait. The deal, when they had the Generals offer it via message, was for the Neraidians to return home, and once they had, the captives would agree to a more formal treaty to not harm Federation space, then be sent on their way too. Released, no harm on any end, no foul. That’s why it’s so important that Jim not shoot at them. Besides the obvious. “Uhura, try to signal them again.”

It takes six minutes.

Six minutes to get ahold of the Neraidian ship. Jim isn’t sure why, if it’s because the force of the break caused the little ship to lose power, or if they’re just having compatibility issues with Starfleet tech now that their magic is almost used up. Spock has taken over interpreting the transdimensional portal readings, and he says it’s going to collapse into itself soon, a matter of minutes. Apparently whatever was particular about the Neraidian infrastructure, without it the hole isn’t maintained. Good. God, if Jim knew it’d be that easy to prevent, he’d have never let Starfleet approve the building of the Neraidian base in the first place.

“What about the other holes, the ones they first used to get here? Can they make more of them?”

“It is unclear. But I believe once they return to their own universe, they will be able to. So they will be able to recover their people, if they wish, at some point.”

Finally, “I’m getting a response, Captain.”

“Put me through.”

The view screen changes, and Jim has a visual on a Neraidian in purple armor. “You should not have done this,” they say.

“Your Generals have given you their orders. They will accompany us to Starfleet Headquarters and negotiate a treaty. Failure to adhere to the treaty will give us the right to stop you, by any means, should you attempt an attack on Federation space again.”

The Neraidian is not bothering to continue a pretense of lies. They are aware of why they were here, of their mission. They look tense. Resigned, though. Jim thinks they might be concerned about catching a ride out on that wormhole, might be contemplating one last desperate move to capture the Enterprise.

“You will leave Federation space. My communications officer, Lieutenant Uhura, is sending you the coordinates through which you may pick up your Generals, and Ambassador, in two weeks time. We assume you will be able to come back through. Should you come back early, the Federation is prepared to treat it as an act of hostility. They will not be harmed. Nor will you, if you stick to the orders you were given.”

The Neraidian is glaring.

“When you come back,” if you come back, “There will be a treaty in place. We expect you and any other Neraidians that follow to adhere to it.”

“We have received your coordinates.” The Neraidian is hard to read. The crewmen behind him seem to be glancing at their own sensors, on edge.

Jim glances over at Spock, who nods, the wormhole is becoming erratic. It will disappear, soon.

“It is a shame, you’re smarter than you look.” The Neraidian ushers a command, in their own language, “You could have given us your prisons. Your dying breed of Vulcans. Perhaps your enemy Klingons. We would have rewarded you handsomely. But instead you chose to resist. Humans always pick that, when they have a choice.”

“We don’t trade lives for power.”

“We will see you in fourteen days.”

The screen cuts out. The Neraidian ship is rocking, dragging toward the planet now, and it looks as if a translucent veil, a ribbon, is tugging it toward the looking glass epicenter.

Just another day on the Enterprise.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

“Can’t believe you missed it.”

“Was I the only person on this goddamn ship getting some rest?”

“Apparently.”

Spock collapsed on the bridge that day. Just, fell right over, after the Neraidian ship got pulled all the way into the hole, as it closed up. He was in Medical for a whole day, just out. Sleeping. Bones called it a “Vulcan trance, maybe.”

And Jim really hated that he threw ‘maybe’ on the end. That left so much open, like ‘maybe not’. Like, ‘maybe dying,’ ‘maybe hurt.’ Maybe could mean anything.

Pike filled Jim in, while Spock was out. He said Spock overheard the Neraidians talking, and acted quickly after Solari met with Pike, because he assumed they wouldn’t get another chance.

Jim can’t find it in himself to be that angry. After all, everything worked out okay. No one died, which is the most important thing. Bones is pleased as peaches.

He’s practically a ray of sunshine, bouncing around the ship over the next few days, as they head back to Earth.

Apparently Neraidians ain't shit without souls to leech off of. All the Generals can do is punch really hard, maybe twice as hard as Spock on a good day, and the handcuffs restrain them too much for them to damage anything. The Ambassador, Jim thinks, might be a little less limited, but he can’t put his finger on why he thinks it. Just instincts.

Pike says the Ambassador helped, helped get the Generals alone, and to agree to finally make the deal. Jim knows that last part, was in the ready room when Celest spoke into their ears, like milk and honey, and then somehow compelled them into changing their tune. They’ve been subdued ever since. Angry, But mostly over being restrained. Jim’s got them in an iron padded containment cell. The beds are nice enough, but Solari keeps complaining they might as well be allowed regular rooms, since they’ve agreed to comply, and all.

Jim’s not sure about that. Solari really, earnestly, seems like the kind of person to just kill whoever he gets a chance to, on the gamble it’ll improve his situation. Real low key, cold blooded vibes coming from him.

The guards assigned to them, have overheard hushed arguments. Lobbed at Celest, and each other. Jim wonders what they’re deliberating on, It’s all in those foreign clicks, so no one can make heads or tails.

He would put Uhura on translating, but she’s also been out for practically a day too. Not so suddenly though. She just signed off the second the confrontation was over, and went to bed. Then, when she got up, Chapel brought her breakfast in bed, and ordered her to take it easy on herself for a while. Jim can’t argue there. So he puts a communication ensign on it -- maybe they’ll pull through, genius in their own right.

“Have you seen Spock?”

Bones takes a bite out of his sandwich, shrugs. “Told you, discharged him from sick bay this morning.”

“But you haven’t seen him since?”

“No Jim.”

“Where the hell is he.” It’s lunch, things are getting back to standard operation around here. Jim stayed from midnight to three in the morning with Spock, after the collapse. Then he figured someone ought to tie up all the loose strings, and organized his -- hopefully -- last major Neraidian related meetings for a while, that’s when he got in touch with Pike. Who’d been sleeping through the whole departure, lucky duck.

Then the day had started, more properly, and Jim had decided to fuck up his sleep schedule and crash. As soon as his head hit the pillow, everything went almost instantly black. He hadn’t realized how tired he’d been.

He’d woke at seventeen hundred, eaten, checked up on Spock -- still basically comatose -- then gone to his place on the bridge, getting back into the swing of things. He’d checked on Spock again, actually starting to worry for more justified reasons, then finished up the last of any paperwork related to this hell excursion. Laid in bed again, barely slept, mostly felt weird and bored and like everything was going too slow, because it’s practically a standstill after all the constant demands of the last week.

Then he’d gotten up, manned the bridge again for a while, visited the observatory -- got floored, for a while, over how quiet and peaceful and leisurely everything felt, now -- then went to the mess hall to maybe gossip with Rand until enough time passed that he could be reasonably justified in eating a sub.

Janice was more than ecstatic when Jim brought down a coffee pot and brewed some real coffee. That’s when he saw Chapel -- she asked them if she could take a cup for Uhura. Jim almost decides right then to go take a cup to everyone, all his senior officers, friends, treat em a little.

But Rand isn’t having that, doesn’t want him rushing off when he’s finally sitting still, and therefore leaving both of them with nothing pressing to do. “Sylon called the Vulcan Council,” she’s saying, as he sips on his third cup. “They might be sending someone to meet up with us in San Francisco...”

“Uh huh.”

Jim isn’t paying much attention. Another yeoman walks by, Jim thinks her name is Zahra, he’s seen her before. She usually helps the Science department. “Are you sure?” she’s saying.

“He said no, can you believe that? To me. I swear, it’s like after her the only person good enough for him is a Vulcan,” Carol is glaring at nothing in particular, walking next to Zahra. They’re headed for seats a few tables away.

“That can’t be true though. Someone saw him hooking up.”

“With who?”

The sound fades off, too far for Jim to pick up anything else. Huh.

“So then I was like, if you really miss the Enterprise so much, you should come back! Nothing’s stopping you,” Janice hits him on the arm, “Hey, anybody in there?”

“Oh. Sorry,” he gives her a sheepish smile, it works like a charm, but only because she’s decided to be forgiving, in a good mood because her paperwork’s done too.

“Have you seen Sulu? He owes me a date.”

“...What? You guys are dating? Since when?!” Then, once reality catches up with him, “Isn’t he married?”

Janice laughs, pours them both some more coffee, then cream to top it off. “Not us. A date with his plants. He has the coolest little guys. Did you know, almost all of his plants are male?”

Eventually, Bones walks in, and that’s when it’s finally appropriate to get a decent meal, plop down next to him, and interrogate into Spock’s health.

Apparently, Spock’s fine now. Missing. But fine.

Maybe.

“I’m going to throttle him when I see him.”

“I’m sure that’s a good idea, Jim. Beat up the guy who can barely stand.”

“And why’s he so sick, anyway?!” Jim throws his hands up, all sweeping movement, and Bones scoots away so he doesn’t get hit in the shoulders every single time Jim does it. “It’s not like he wasn’t getting enough rest, I made sure of that.”

“I didn’t need that image, Jim.”

“I’m serious! We were getting a full eight -- well maybe like six, but! Full night of sleep! Why’s he so exhausted?”

“You guys were sleeping together?”

Jim throws back his head, heaps out a sigh as his arms go flying again. “I literally just fucking told you this the other day, are you sick on me now too?”

Bones delicately eats at his own sandwich, moving his drink so it’s on the side farther from Jim. “That’s not. I mean, you two aren’t just sleeping together. You’re, sleeping, like in a bed at night. All night.”

“That’s what I fucking said.”

“Oh man.”

Jim throws himself onto the table, leaning heavy on his arms, “Oh, don’t give me that. I know I’m a sap okay. I don’t need you pointing it out.”

“You have it so bad, man.”

Jim pushes himself back up, ever restless, starts eating again.

“You plan on telling him you love him anytime soon?”

“Mmmffgghm.”

“That’s swell Jim, real swell.”

Jim swallows. “Fuck off.”

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Jim corners Spock on day three after the Neraidian showdown. It’s the very next time they have bridge duty together.

The first time he’s seen him awake since before he collapsed.

Spock, the bastard, is acting like absolutely nothing is remiss. Like he didn’t just walk out of sick bay yesterday and talk to no one. As if he didn’t blow off Jim for over twenty four hours.  
  
The shift is over, and Jim is following Spock into the turbolift before Spock can close the doors on him.

“So,” Jim starts, thrown off balance by how Spock is at once standing closed off and relaxed. “What’s been up with you?”

Spock matches him in volume. Light. Airy. “I recovered in sick bay, then checked myself out. I have been in contact with my father. I hear the Vulcans are not done trying to capitalize on the situation.”

“Oh.”

Spock curts his head.

“So, that’s all, then?”

Jim’s waiting for a ‘yes, Jim’. Waiting for a gentle smile to let him know it’s nothing, that maybe Spock was just still tired, wanted to rest alone in his room instead of in sick bay where Bones would fuss over him, or with Jim where he would. Instead he gets nothing. Another brief nod, Spock looking at the doors in front of him.

“No uh… no work? You just called your dad?”

“When I awoke I found you had completed the last of my paperwork for me.”

“Yeah.”

It’s weird. Spock is acting weird. There’s a kind of gulf between them, almost.

Not really that severe, but Jim feels suddenly separate, alone with himself, even though Spock is beside him.

“Well, if you’re free now, I’m caught up with my own stuff too. If you want, we could go play chess, maybe?”

Maybe.

“I would be amenable to that.”

 

\-----------------------------------

 

It’s one of the least intimate games of chess they have ever played.

Spock is meticulous about keeping his fingers away from Jim’s, not a single accidental graze, their hands don’t even get within half a foot of each other. Spock actually waits, if there’s a chance they might touch, to move until Jim has sat his own hands back onto his lap.

His game is, as ever, impeccable. Flawed, because he’s playing Jim, and Jim beats logic, the way scissors cut paper. And Spock isn’t trying his best to match Jim’s irregularity today. He’s too structured. Held too still. Something must be distracting him, because it shouldn’t be this hard for Spock to match him move for move, to adapt. Spock keeps trying long games, and even though they’re elaborate, Jim can break through something that relies so heavily on all the pieces falling together.

Spock is definitely distracted.

The game is dragging on forever, because he keeps switching long games, and Jim keeps almost destroying him before he recovers, and it goes on like this. They aren’t making much progress.

“What’cha thinkin about?” Jim asks, moving another piece, seeing how Spock is going to take it in a few turns, or compensate if Jim makes up for it.

“This.”

“Really.”

“...” Spock doesn’t go for the easier move, to overtake Jim, instead chooses a different route. “I am sorry I didn’t inform you of the plan, the other night. It was not… very professional.”

“Professional?”

“Standard protocol dictates I should have run any plans of action through you before proceeding.”

“Yeah. It does.” Jim contemplates the setup, wonders if Spock is initiating another long strategy, or if he acted on impulse just then. “Not that we always follow it. When you’re right you’re right. We work well together.”

“I believe so.” Then why is he sitting there walled off, eyes never leaving the set pieces, never meeting Jim’s, isolated. If they work so well. Together. Isn’t he being illogical, right now?

It’d be hell to call him out on it. “Is that all you’re thinking about?”

“For the most part.”

“Hm.” Jim takes his turn. “Then. Did I do something? I just. Feel like you’re avoiding me.” It’s quiet, they are in Jim’s quarters. It was Spock’s suggestion that they play here.

Spock breathes in, taking his time, he is trying to come up with the ideal words to say. “You have not done anything, Jim.” But Spock still isn’t looking at him, not even at his hands or shoulders, let alone his eyes. In a human, avoiding eye contact is a sign of lying.

But Spock doesn’t lie.

“So, we’re okay?”

It worries Jim that Spock isn’t giving declarative answers. That Spock only ‘mm’s in response, moving a knight on the setup between them.

“Then look at me, Spock.”

Maybe he’s being selfish. Demanding. Too human. But his instincts say ‘worry’ and they’ve never let him down before. Not critically, anyway.

Spock does, and Jim immediately knows why Spock had been avoiding this. There’s a heaviness there, turning the brown to almost black. A weariness, a shadow underneath them that Spock could hide in the contours of his face when he looked down and away, but now it’s in the light as Spock’s face is angled up to see him, and he does not look better than he did when he collapsed. He looks worse, sheen of sweat replaced with a pallor and faint worried lines. How did anyone ever approve of him leaving the sick bay?

The worst part, is Jim can see conflict in his gaze. The most human, readable part, about Spock. Those brown eyes that are neither fire nor void, right now they are obsidian stones with little cracks where Spock is bleeding through the walls of composure. He looks like he’s hurting. Like he’s covering it up.

Jim knows that look on Spock. Really wishes he didn’t.

“You’re exhausted, still, aren’t you.” Jim says, a statement, a fact, and Spock won’t even dignify him with a verbalized response. The silence is confirmation enough.

“We’ve talked about this, about you working yourself too hard. I’m not mad at you if you took the day off to rest.” Another streak of silence, where Spock is just listening to him, letting Jim stare him down. “Is that why your game’s been off tonight? Cause you’re too tired to play your match, right now?”

Now that, that Spock scoffs at, a little quiet huff as he lets his eyes dart away, then back to Jim’s. Still too stubborn to roll his eyes, to let Jim have that.

“Come here.” Jim is getting up, walking around the desk to Spock, still rigid as ever, eyes hard. “I’ll let you off the hook, since you’re not gonna win this one.”

Jim waits a beat, for Spock to swivel to face him, and takes hold of Spock’s shoulders, softly, helps him to stand. Not that he’d ever say he needed help, not that he does, necessarily, right now.

But, wow, Jim missed this simple contact. This intimacy. Of being familiar with one another, of being allowed.

Spock lets Jim pull him up, lets Jim lead him to the bed. And, he is letting Jim. Because Spock looks a little sallow but he feels strong and sure against Jim’s fingers, he could easily walk away from this, or stop this. Or hold himself apart.

But he’s letting Jim lead him. Then he’s letting Jim maneuver him onto the bed to sit. He’s letting Jim crawl up next to him, sit cross-legged beside him, and touch his shoulders again, his back. He’s letting Jim rub soothing circles into his skin, letting Jim work tense back muscles into some semblance of flesh rather than stone.

Spock is so very, very still. A statue, eyes cast toward the wall again, away from Jim as he works. “What do you want, Spock? I want to help.”

There is silence, Spock feels all wrong beneath his hands, all cloth and body heat and there’s no spark of anything, Jim can feel this iron curtain furrowed beneath Spock’s skin, sense it. It’s holding them apart. Isolating Spock.

“This is good.”

“Okay.” So Jim continues, gets more comfortable as he shuffles behind Spock, becomes more earnest in his attempts to soothe the pain away.

“Jim.”

“Yeah?”

Jim can see Spock’s lips move, words almost mouthed and then discarded. Then new words come out. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Anytime.” Jim stretches his path out to Spock’s waist, the tightness near his ribs. Feels Spock tremor against him, before it’s suppressed. Like it is taking all Spock has for him to hold himself together, to keep himself from falling into Jim and letting go. “You don’t have to always be strong around me, Spock. I don’t mind. I like you no matter how you are.”

That last part, it gets Jim a laugh. A little quiet thing, just for Jim. “Is that why you seemed so earnest about hooking up with my counterparts? Any me is acceptable, as long as it is me?”

“I wasn’t being serious, about that.” Jim laughs back, places a kiss between Spock’s shoulder blades, over the science blues, because he can. “But I am serious. About you.”

Spock finally leans back into him, and eventually they end up horizontal, Jim as the big spoon, still half heartedly massaging into Spock as they lay there. ‘ _I love you._ ’

Spock’s hair is soft where Jim’s cheeks press against it. He would be more content, if only Spock would stop tremoring. It’s a barely there thing, but every so often Jim feels a little shake, tight muscles recoiling themselves, resisting the press of safety around them. Spock’s lungs pressing out air, and then for a moment jittering, like the air is sharp, like his throat is sharp, like, maybe, some preclude to sobs. But then it’s clamped down on, and Spock is pliant in his arms again, motionless and quiet, breathing even, and Jim can’t be sure he’s not just overanalyzing.

He pets down Spock’s side, tangles his fingers with Spock’s. It’s different this time, different and the same. Spock is clamping down internally, controlled, there is no shudder when Jim touches him there. But all the same, Spock seems placated, like he always does, when Jim does this.

Jim isn’t sure Spock is okay.

But it’s just a feeling.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

“Hey Spock,” ‘ _I love you._ ' It’s morning. Spock is in Jim’s arms. He’s awake, he’s been awake, waiting for Jim to get up too. How sweet.

Spock pets through Jim’s hair, tentative. Hands moving like they are comfortable there, have always had permission to exist, touch Jim. But there’s still a stiffness, Spock is still holding some piece of himself taut, for some reason. “What did you dream about?” Spock asks.

“Ahhh um,” Jim yawns, cuddles further into Spock’s arms. “About Mars. And riding hoverbikes on the volcanoes there.” Spock’s eyes widen, quickly recover. “About a place I used to grow up. It had all these fields of wheat… in my dream, the fields turned into Mars when they shrivelled up. Which, I guess is good.”

“Why did they shrivel up?” Spock is still petting through his hair, stroking his neck, his cheeks, his temple, every so often. It’s nice.

“You’re looking better, this morning. Well-rested.” Spock rewards him with a smile, soft upturned lips, and Jim kisses into them, delighted. Just pressing, just feeling, touching. Being here with him, together. Safe.

Eventually they pull apart, Jim’s hands around Spock’s waist, massaging again, at muscles that have the nerve to still be tight. “Was there not enough water, in your dream?”

Jim doesn’t know why he keeps asking. It’s not important.

Maybe Spock needs to be distracted.

“It. Yeah. It just always dries up, when I dream about it. Cause. That’s how I remember it. Don’t think I can really remember what it’s supposed to look like, green. So I just don’t, my brain changes it whenever it tries to, I dunno.” Spock looks so serious, like the words Jim say are important. Are gospel. More, teachings of Surak. Elevated above them.

Jim rolls on top of Spock, straddles him. “So, seriously, how are you feeling?” He nuzzles into Spock’s neck, playful for a moment, pressing a few sloppy kisses there, a thrill going through him when Spock shudders from it, a tiny bit.

Spock’s eyes meet his again, when Jim pulls his head up, and they’re dilating, all darkness. And Jim is sure Spock wishes that he could say everything was fine now. But. “I am still somewhat… overextended.” Spock pulls Jim down by the small of his neck, it’s so easy, for Spock. So damn easy, to manhandle him, like this, tired or not. They kiss again, and the heat is there but it takes a backseat, because playboy or not, Jim wants Spock to be okay more than he wants to fool around.

“Guess you just need to take the day off,” Jim grins, Spock fluttering his mouth open like a fish, almost, getting in control of himself as Jim adds “recuperate,” with a wink.

Spock flips them over, Jim’s head hits the pillow hard.

“What?” Jim can’t suppress his own smile, sees how Spock is at once annoyed and enthralled, that special gaze he only has for Jim, that only Jim can compel him to.

Spock could throw out a great one liner, could rip him a new one, could just fucking agree instead -- one of the best possible alternatives. Instead he leans forward, bites sharp on Jim’s shoulder. Watches Jim stutter, like Jim’s surprised it happened. Which, he’s not. But. Ow. Also, wow. He may be getting a pavlovian response to that too. “Was that you trying to put me in my place?”

“You are already in your place.”

“And where’s that.”

“Right,” Spock places a firm finger on Jim’s chest, presses, “here.”

He can’t help it, he’s smiling again despite himself, hand coming up to rest on top of Spock’s on his chest, over his heart. Oddly sappy, he doesn’t have it in him, suddenly, to berate Spock for not picking ‘below me’ instead, to be mean, or ‘at my side’ to be more accurate. He’s just too mushy, melting, right now, to bother with it.

He uses his other hand to pull Spock’s head back to his again, kiss again. To pull Spock against him, hold him, merge them together as much as two separate people can.

They don’t break apart until they have to, panting.

“You know, cuddling is good for your health. We really should just stay in bed.”

Spock flicks a condescending eyebrow at him, and he just giggles.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Turns out, Spock doesn’t have the patience to actually manage to sixty nine. Not that Jim thought, oh, that a sex position, especially one where you just lay down basically, could require patience.

“No, look, c’mon --” Spock is pushing Jim’s hands off, throwing him onto his back again. Like, really throwing. Jim is glad the mattress is on the softer side.

“This position is uncomfortable,” Spock is swiveling around and climbing over Jim without any fucking regard for Jim’s body, happy to knee and elbow him as he moves to straddle Jim’s waist. A part of Jim thinks Spock enjoys pushing, seeing if anything will be too annoying for Jim to tolerate.

“You didn’t even give it a --”

“Regardless, I desire more range of access in which to stimulate you.”

“What? Spock --” There’s another bite on his neck, sharp, then another one, on the other side, that stings even more, and Jim’s about to maybe, for the first time, tell him he’s being too rough.

“If that is,” Spock is soothing his tongue over it though, soft, kissing like apologies but they’re absolutely empty, a rouse. Still, it’s turning Jim on,”amenable to you.”

“Ahhh it’s --”

Spock is pressing wet kisses against the center of his throat now, pinpointed to where it’s most sensitive. He must know, he must have fucking made note of it the first time he ever kissed there, and Jim’s biting his lip trying to not moan so much. “The position,” there’s a hand on Jim’s chest, tantalizing, stroking a nub as it’s hardening, then fleeting away to scratch down his ribs, light. “is ridiculous, in any case. I would much rather see your face as I make you come apart.”

Jim doesn’t know when this whole thing got so out of hand, when Spock got it in his head that he’s allowed to do this. Work him like this, play him, make him react, too overwhelmed to control anything.

“Spock?” Jim reaches out, threads his fingers through Spock’s hair, tries to tug Spock up to face him.

“Yes, Jim?” Spock is looking down into him now, momentarily paused.

“...I could get used to this.” Jim sighs, letting himself get lost in Spock’s gaze. There’s a second part to that, a silent question tagged at the end, that Jim is too afraid to voice. That he hopelessly, irrationally thinks, maybe Spock might understand anyway.

Jim can feel Spock shift, one of Spock’s hands moving up, to cradle Jim’s face. Then Spock leans down to kiss his lips, soft.


	7. This is all too much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Spock can’t take this. His walls are falling. They are crashing asunder, fast and in pieces all blowing apart into nonexistence. He can’t catch hold of anything. His body begs him, all instinct, to grab hold of Jim and try to stabilize. But he can’t."
> 
> Or, literally: Jim and Spock have sex. Spock isn't done facing the consequences of his mind meld with the Neraidian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spock and Jim aren't out of the woods yet. I needed them to have a little bit of happiness, before the next disaster hits. Also, while it's probably abundantly apparent, italics are thoughts that Spock can hear (though he can probably sense less coherent thoughts/feelings sometimes too). So all of the italics in previous chapters... Spock's heard. Lastly -- I'm sorry it took me months to update. Summer semester was incredibly hectic. 
> 
> Inspirations:  
> “She's fallin' in love now  
> Losin' control now  
> Fightin' the truth  
> Tryin' to hide  
> But I think it's alright girl  
> Yeah, I think it's alright girl” - Losin Control by Russ
> 
> “I have been and always shall be yours.” - Spock, The Wrath of Khan

Jim is too much.

Too good. Too real. Too much.

Sometimes - no, always - it is a constant force, the way Jim draws him in and holds him captive. The way Jim looks into him like there is no shield up, never any shield, and tears everything down until it’s just him and Spock, until it’s just Jim feeling Spock’s heart beat against his own skin.

And he’s lost. Spock is lost in that sensation, a constant dragging current that pulls him under and into the folds and presses of matter that coalesce to form James Tiberius Kirk. But that isn’t right. That isn’t who Jim is. That is just one facet, one face the world sees, the world projects onto him, from the instant of his birth.

The person that reaches into Spock and begs that Spock reach back, a constant want, need - that is Jim. Spock’s Jim. A miraculous, disastrous, unmeasurable, indefinable creature which somehow sees Spock. And against all reason, from the few slips that shimmer through, decides he wants to see more, have more.

Jim wants to take what is Spock, and accept it.

All the pieces that fester below the pristine masks and the composed sets of duties, Jim wants to love them. The pieces that are Spock, once every falsity is stripped away.

Jim wants him, even if those falsities are all Jim will ever get to know.

And it is too much. Far too much.

 

Jim is so good to him. He feels laid bare, stripped on the inside and not just the outside, flayed with all his organs on display. Every little scar and scrape and unwanted memory visible to those probing eyes as they gaze at him fondly.

But that is incorrect. Jim can not see into him, not really. He is not a Vulcan, he can not read minds. He can never take what Spock won’t give to him. But sometimes, it is easy to forget.

The way Jim cares, it’s so easy. To pretend that Jim sees him, sees everything, and still wants him. To assume Jim can, because he acts like he can, and puts on bravado as he guesses to what Spock is thinking. A constant stream of constant effort, on Jim’s part. Just trying to help. Spock lov --

Jim is kissing against his cheek, gentle, then moving to the other to kiss it too. Jim is leaning back so he can look at Spock’s entire face, a smile gracing soft giving lips as Jim just takes him in. Jim is carding his fingers through the short clipped sides of Spock’s hair, rubbing the skin as he works slowly and unfocused, then those lips are on Spock again. Against his own.

Spock feels blown apart, grated into stinging ragged pieces, but that isn’t how it’s supposed to feel. The nerves of his skin feel only careful caring caresses, lips connecting, fingers ghosting to the back of his neck. His heart hammering in his side, his lungs aching from no logical stimuli, his eyes stinging. Everything is too much.

Jim presses his tongue into Spock, and it’s more caressing, more intimate. Always more. Even the flutter of Jim’s eyelashes against Spock’s own cheeks, as Jim adjusts the angle of his head, is unbearably more.

It’s perfect. It’s awful. Spock feels so much all at once and he can’t make himself reel it in, can not make it stop.

 

Sometimes, Spock thinks, if he could just reach back, and connect, the way Jim wants him to, on the inside -- then maybe. Maybe it wouldn’t matter anymore if he could control all these feelings. Then he could just, maybe, drown in them, together. Lost with Jim.

But Jim doesn’t know what he wants. Maybe. Jim doesn’t deserve this, regardless. So it does not matter what he wants.

Spock can not protect Jim, from so many things. But this, Spock - Spock can protect Jim from him, at least. At least, he will try for as long as he can. Jim makes him so lost, maybe one day -- maybe one day Spock will lose this fight and give in, and get lost with Jim, and then both of them will never be able to find their way out. Maybe there is no Spock, in no universe, that is strong enough to protect Jim from that.

Spock is not special, not in these matters. If the other Spocks could not spare Jim from themselves, then it is unlikely he will somehow manage. Especially if Jim keeps pushing like this. Always wanting more. Relentless. Unwilling to understand how much he’ll regret it, if he gets him. Spock.  

‘ _I love you,_ ’ Jim presses into him, mouth trailing off of Spock’s own and down to Spock’s neck. ‘ _I love you so much, you’re perfect, you’re perfect._ ’ Jim kisses down Spock’s chest, to the place where a heart would reside, were he human. ‘ _There’s nothing better than this, then you._ ’

Spock doesn’t need to hear it, he already knows this is what love is. Even if Jim did not force it through his skin, through his soul - arrows sharpened to a point - Spock would understand. Only love can break a person into pieces like this. A unique kind of shattering where you are still held mercilessly together, forced to withstand the blows to an ever more frayed and torn core.

This is how it felt when his father swore he would never speak to him again, when he left for Starfleet. This is how it felt when his mother was verbally attacked, on a daily basis, and Spock had to bury the brutality of it until eventually the blows tore him open and he lashed out back. This is how it felt when home was destroyed, and he would never be able to go back, never even get to consider if he would want to. When his mother looked at him, half atomized, and then the ground crumbled away, and she slipped away from him. Forever.

Love.

Love is losing. Love is opening up until you are raw and bare and everything you hate about yourself, and then losing the only things that would not mind you that way. As you are.

‘ _I love you._ ’ Jim smooths his hands down Spock’s sides, reassuring pressure, as his lips form words against the skin of Spock’s abdomen,“You’re so perfect, Spock.” He’s saying it out loud now, harsh loud syllables existing in the universe, fully realized and given to Spock knowingly, now. It is long past too much.

Spock holds back a sob, regulates what pieces of himself he can, and slowly tries to become unwound again. Jim becomes displeased, whenever he notices that Spock’s body has become tense. Spock breathes out deeply, a controlled sigh, and Jim kisses him where his thigh joins to his hip, encouraging.

When Spock is finally pliant again, he is rewarded with more soft presses, more of Jim looking at him as if there could exist nothing more precious, and the mantra of  ‘ _I love you_ ’s return, to replace the stray worry that had crept up in the moment of Spock’s tenseness.

 

Spock wishes he could block it out, all those awful tendrils of thought where the truth slips through and Spock can hardly bear it. It is awful.

It is perfect, it is too much, it is love and Spock is surrounded and engulfed and can not make it stop. Maybe, if he had not expended all his energy in days past, melding with the Neraidian, then he would be able to make it stop. Silence it. Lock it outside of himself and pretend it doesn’t exist.

It would still be too much, too overwhelming, with just Jim’s touch, Jim’s words. The way Jim holds him, looks at him, amazes him.

But it would be less than this. Then this complete onslaught.

Spock feels his own fingers twist through Jim’s hair, almost dancing, begging to touch and take and consume. To join.

He drags his own hand away, down to Jim’s shoulder instead, and holds on.

 

Jim’s fingers are inside him, and it’s too much to bear. He can’t suppress his sounds as he cries out. He is surrounded by a mantra, ‘ _I love you, I love you, I love you, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, you are precious and wonderful and good, I love you so much_ ,’ that won’t cease as it beats through his skin, seeps into every atom, floods him and drowns out anything else but that sensation. That feeling of being wanted. Loved.

Spock’s hands fly across Jim’s back, desperate to find some better way to anchor himself, and a ghost thought in the back of Spock’s mind worries he will bruise this beautiful being that is breaking him apart. The emotion that surges up is appalling, is fondness and desire and hatred all at once and Spock cannot remove himself from it, holds on tighter and tries to pretend his need to try and control this somehow by touching Jim is not a manifestation of his emotions come unhinged.

In between the inescapable cacophony of ‘ _I love you_ ’ that bleeds through from Jim’s fingers as they press inside him, all perfectly stimulating, from Jim’s caress as his other hand and lips skim across Spock’s body, Spock hears words spoken aloud.

Most of them are the same words - no, different words - same sentiment. “You’re perfect,” Jim whispers as he kisses, monstrous, butterfly presses against Spock’s wildly beating heart. “I love when you’re like this,” he moans as if somehow Spock is affecting him back just as strongly through this connection of bodies.

Spock does not think he is projecting. If anything, it is the last and only thing he still seems to have control over. He will not let loose this chaos of feeling into Jim back. But even just this, it’s enough. Enough for Jim to see and hear want that no one should, enough to make Spock self aware of the reasons he had often opted to avoid such intimacy. This is weakness, this is weakness and vulnerability and beyond all it is feeling everything, feeling too much, and being unable to make it stop.

Spock can feel his own tear ducts welling and threatening to join into the loss of control, he pulls Jim tighter to himself, and tries to focus on the physicality of it all, where his mind cannot move him.

 

It’s wonderful, the physicality. Jim is skilled. Spock could simply leave him to his own devices, and be satisfied with any outcome. It is the compassion pouring in through every point of connection, because Jim is screaming it, screaming it in his mind, relentless.

Spock could never have blocked all of it out. The fact his shields are torn to bits from the Neraidians only exasperates the problem, but it would have likely been a problem anyway.

Jim is a remarkably moving individual. Even on Spock’s best days, he finds himself lilting his lips up in a smile at the things Jim says and does. Even when it isn’t even targeted with pinpoint precision at him. Even when it isn’t even in the ballpark of an attempt toward him. Jim is just too exhilarating.

A sound cuts through the mantra, different from the affection seeping through him, from the gentle pleased whispers across his skin. “Spock?” it has a tone of nervousness that makes it sharp, any confidence within the sound is undermined.

Spock takes the pause to gather himself, to smooth his fingers across Jim’s back and stroke comfortingly, to remind himself there is a bed below him and of what the sheets feel like, to think in the space within his mind now that the mantra is quieter and the stimulation of his body has slowed to a sudden halt.

“Yes,” he says, as soon as his breathing is some mockery of evened out.

“Can I, is it okay if I…” this Jim, in this moment, is at odds with so many assumptions Spock had of what Jim might have been like in bed in the past. Not that Spock ever thought of those things at length, or unconsciously wished to replace the imagined partners with himself, or anything. “I’d like to be inside you, now, if that’s,” Jim buries his face into Spock’s chest, eye contact breaking, and starts nuzzling and kissing, slow. Probably to hide his blush, and his terrible present command of the language.

Spock inexplicably finds it endearing, is comforted by the fact Jim is no doubt blushing in this instant, is just as overwhelmed and at loss in his composure as Spock has been. There is a familiarity in that. Spock does not feel so bad about his slipping now. In the privacy of this room, with just them, maybe, maybe they are allowed to be imperfect and find that it is okay.

There is a comfort in that. In that maybe Jim does not need or want him to be perfect in this world, when it seems every other entity and situation demands Spock be so and yet always laments he had not accomplished it to their undefined standard.

Spock pulls Jim up, it is hardly an effort at all, until Jim’s face is directly above his. Jim is blushing, his eyes flashing wide as Spock stares back at him.

Spock leans up to kiss him, and the mantra bleeding through in quiet tendrils goes completely silent. Instead all Spock can feel is Jim’s heart beating against his chest, Jim’s eyelashes fluttering across his cheek. Jim’s fingers as they twitch to latch onto Spock like an anchor. Jim’s emotions as he falls off his own abyss and into chaos, all warmth and change and steadiness and fear, all inside Jim.

Spock feels so bad for skimming it, and that his weak shields are no excuse for eavesdropping on what Jim feels when he is not projecting. Or even when he is projecting, to be honest. But it’s intoxicating despite the moral grey zone, just to possess the knowledge Jim is lost too, Jim is also afraid of his feelings. Afraid and in awe. That maybe this inadequacy Spock has with handling his own is not isolated to striving to be more Vulcan. Maybe it is just something all living creatures at times endure, are conflicted by.

Jim is conflicted too. Spock deepens the kiss,  uses one hand to smooth through Jim’s hair and the other to stroke across the line of his spine, offering to ground him through touch. Is this love, trying to help?

Wishing to.

“Yes,” Spock says against Jim’s lips, once they part. He moves to clutch at Jim’s back, to pull Jim in closer, feels Jim slot between his legs, hooks his own legs around Jim to bring him ever closer. “Please, Jim.”

He is lost again. Both of them are.

 

Jim is slow, at first. Like everything else he does, gentle, testing, seeing what Spock can take. What is allowed. Spock cannot endure this.

He tries to goad Jim on, faster, harder, anything, pressing his legs insistently around Jim, pressing him close. He can’t stand the wonder that seeps through every point of contact, the way Jim’s hand wraps around his cock and strokes feather light, harsh, matching Spock’s fervor with artificial calmness. Spock can see inside Jim, and Jim is lost and drowning and set on fire, every instinct screaming to move and take and join together. But that isn’t what he’s doing.

He’s taking his time.

Spock moans, unrestrained, when Jim’s grip gets tighter, when he thrusts deeper, hands flying across Jim’s back because he can hear without asking or being given the permission to listen, that Jim wants to be in control.

Spock clutches at the pillow by his head, desperate, trying to give Jim what he wants. Trying not to drag him closer.

Jim kisses him, presses deeper, increases his tempo. One hand still on Spock, relentlessly tighter, the other snaking through Spock’s clutched fingers, keeping Jim held upright and driving Spock insane all at once. He’s gone. He’s losing.

This is all too much.

Too much.

Jim goes faster, keeps hitting a particularly lovely cluster of nerves. Spock can’t help himself and forces Jim closer with his legs, doesn’t care that Jim is prisoner, knows that Jim doesn’t. Never does. Hears that mantra again. _‘I love you. I love you Spock. So much.’_ And it is. So much. Too much.

Spock wonders if there is any limit to it.

His free hand finds it’s way into Jim’s hair again, grasp tight, pulling, fighting for something but Spock could not name what it might be. He pulls Jim’s lips back to him as soon as they drift away. He buries his face against Jim’s neck and bites with abandon, when Jim tries to pull back so he can watch Spock’s face.

Spock lets Jim go, for an instant, because he hears ‘ _it’s too good, too much. I love you so fucking much Spock. I want you. I want all of you. Always._ ’ and it’s fire against his skin, it burns, sears, and he’s throwing his hands against the sheets again, away from that beautiful mind that keeps begging, desperately, unknowingly, to be consumed.

To be his.

Spock wishes he just could --

Could --

“You’re so beautiful Spock,” Jim says against his ear, before pulling away from Spock’s lips and teeth against his neck, so he can meet Spock’s eyes. No.

Jim threads his free hand, the one supporting him, with Spock’s again, not caring as he leans on Spock more, knows Spock can handle it and more, the weight is nothing. _‘I love you. I love you’._

No. Jim kisses Spock’s chest, sucks lightly at the nub nearest to him, then tilts his head back to face Spock again. Thrusts particularly hard, watches Spock gasp at it. All for him.

It is. Spock would let it be. Whatever he wanted.

 

 _‘I love you.’ ‘I love you.’_   -- “I love you,” Jim breathes into the skin of Spock’s chest, where a human heart would be, slides his hand across Spock’s cock faster, desperate,  wanting, waiting for Spock to reach the edge. Jim kisses him on the lips, soft press, his eyes so close, everything inside is dulled compared to this right here. This physical reality assaulting him. “I love you.”

Jim buries his face in Spock’s neck, his turn to gasp, hips stuttering as he reaches completion, collapses over Spock, breathless pants against Spock’s ear. Jim is gasping, even after he comes, quiet desperate dragging in of air. Spock thinks he feels wetness against his skin there.

Jim is still moving his hand, frantic, drags himself down between Spock’s legs as soon as his breathing comes back to some semblance of stability. He is smiling, brilliant, and then he’s swallowing Spock up, hand and mouth pulling Spock past the edge too.

 “Jim, Jim,” Spock wonders if he has been saying that this whole time. Can’t remember suddenly. Can’t be sure he has any idea what was in his mind and what was out loud since this began. Jim is so loud, brighter than everything else, Spock isn’t sure what he is supposed to hear, is allowed to hear.

‘ _You’re perfect_ ’ he hears all around him, and isn’t sure if Jim said it aloud. But Jim’s tongue is hot pressed against him, lips warm, sucking, and Spock relents that he is still intruding. Viewing everything he shouldn’t, hates that he can not stop.

Could he even stop if it was possible? Could he resist this, even knowing it’s not supposed to be --

“Jim,” Spock pants, hands dragging against Jim’s skull, stroking delicately across Jim’s ears, jaw. Grasping for what isn’t his. “Please, please,” make it stop. Make it --

Anything. Make it stop make it continue forever anything, whatever Jim wants, whatever Jim will give him. Anything. Everything. This forever. It doesn’t matter.

Spock can see inside Jim’s mind. Just for one single second. It’s blinding.

Its warm and perfect and it belongs to him, with him, part of him, and he’s never felt so --

Spock feels himself fall past the edge as he’s reigning in his insides, ramifying every single minutia of his walls, making himself apart. He falls off the edge, Jim’s name on his lips, ripping at sheets that could have just as easily been Jim’s mind.

Jim doesn’t know. He won’t ever know. Spock should not have done it.

 

He is not a good -- “You are so beautiful, Spock,” Jim is breathless with awe, meeting Spock’s eyes, one hand reaching out and stroking Spock’s face, beyond reverence.

Spock can’t bear to face what he sees staring back at him. And yet he cannot look away. Jim’s lips curve gently upward, eyes stars as they burn Spock up, unknowing.

Jim pushes himself up, crawling over Spock until they’re face to face again, then lying over Spock, all comforting weight, hands cradling Spock’s face, smoothing out the mess that his hair has worked into. “Spock,” no, not this. He can’t bear this. _‘I love you.’_

Spock can’t look away, locked in Jim’s gaze, cataclysm and salvation all at once. Always.

Spock’s walls are up as much as he can manage, bear, stand. For all his weakness right now, all the erosion of recent events, of Jim assaulting him like he has, especially today, and Spock is forcing it to stay firm as much as he can, right now. He has to.

He can see fear in Jim’s eyes though, and every atom of him is screaming to know why. That Spock could know exactly why, and assuage the fear, end it, if only he reached out and -- no.

“I…” Spock doesn’t need to read Jim’s mind right now, though everything inside him is screaming and begging to be allowed, to be inside and get to anyway. Jim lets the words die in his throat, eyes still forlorn though the smile he wears is more serene than anything Spock knows how to deal with, process.

Spock leans up those few inches and kisses him. Reinforces every cell inside himself to keep it’s distance, to not intrude and invade and sweep Jim up.

Even though Jim knows nothing, could not sense anything even if he did, there is some tenseness from him, like Jim is as desperate to crash past those walls as Spock is to let him.

 

They break apart. They have to. Spock can’t lose control.

 

He smooths Jim’s own messy hair back into some semblance of order, mirroring Jim as he does so. They can’t seem to look away from each other, Spock can think of no reason why they would.  “Thank you,” is all Spock can think to say.

To cut the silence left in the wake after their storm of begs, pleas to be together, always more. To close the gap his wall creates, to give Jim a bridge with which to reach him.

To let Jim know, in one of what are all woefully inadequate ways, that this means something. That this means more to Spock then can ever be expressed.

“Spock,” Jim’s eyes are moist, his voice sounds hoarse, more hoarse than it should be, not hoarse because of what Jim was just doing with his mouth and throat to Spock’s body. “I love you.”

Spock knows.

 

Jim, somehow, must know that Spock is already aware. Just like Jim already knew all the answers to those questions he asked, back in the beginning, back when they started all this. He must already know how much he means to Spock. He must.

It must not even compute, how much that really is.

Spock knows he can’t comprehend what Jim is saying, right now, even though he’s heard and seen enough to have had time to prepare. To try to wrap his mind around such a concept. But --

 

Spock can’t take this.

His walls are falling. They are crashing asunder, fast and in pieces all blowing apart into nonexistence. He can’t catch hold of anything. His body begs him, all instinct, to grab hold of Jim and try to stabilize. But he can’t. He can’t do that, not to Jim.

He loves Jim.

Spock can’t destroy him like that.

  
\-----------------------------------

 

Spock sees red, and blinding white light -- Vulcan, then it’s shining shimmering sunlight, and Jim haloed in that light, lying below him against him, inside him, part of him. Sees the blackness of space and stars and miles and miles of expanse that living things were never normally meant to cross. Hears sounds in the distance, but every direction is just more miles, miles more of nothing, not even air.

Then there is blood. And blinding white light that is not Jim, not part of him. It is alien.

It hurts.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

“Spock? Spock?!” Jim feels like a fucking fool. He reaches over to the computer terminal that’s just barely within reach of the bed, too worried to let go of Spock completely, one hand still against Spock’s chest, as if fucking bodily contact would even help. It probably doesn’t. Fucking idiot.

“Get Dr. McCoy. To my room, now. Medical Emergency,” Jim orders the ensign who answers, then ends the call as soon as she confirms that Bones is on his way.

Jim glances down at Spock, strokes his face, trying to be comforting, but really because he has no idea how to help, what to do. Spock looks as if he’s asleep.

But people don’t just pass out like that. They don’t just look at you like you hung the moon, stars in their eyes, cradling your face, then drop limp against the bed. That just doesn’t happen, it’s not a thing that happens.

Jim is freaking the fuck out. Internally of course.

 

Externally he forces himself up, stands, checks Spock’s vitals again but _they feel fine_ , he’s just asleep, why is he fucking asleep --  then bends down and grabs his pants, or Spock’s pants, it doesn’t matter whose they are, and puts them on.

Checks Spock’s pulse again -- fine, feels like it always does when he’s not fucking dying and Jim can tell when it isn’t okay and it’s time to worry, now it’s just as normal as ever, maybe a little fast, but Spock did just have sex so, of course it would be -- then fights the sudden urge to pace. Because everything is out of his control right now.

Instead of pacing, he does what he thinks Spock might wish he’d do, were he conscious, and finds Spock’s underwear on the floor and yanks it back onto him. So when Bones, and whoever else comes to fix this, gets in the room, no one else besides Jim will have the privilege of being able to discuss Spock’s dick from any kind of first hand experience.

It doesn’t even take a minute to accomplish the task. Then Jim is left with the fact he’s not in control again. That he can’t do anything.

 

He crawls half over Spock again, careful not to put any weight on him, checks that his breathing is still fine. He can see Spock’s eyelids shift, just slightly, every so often, as if Spock were dreaming. “Spock! Spock!” Jim begs, Spock or the universe, whoever and whatever will fix the situation, honestly. “Wake up! I’m freaking out here.” Jim feels himself collapse, all dead weight with his arms the only thing keeping him upright on the bed, “Please wake up, I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Spock does not stir. He just keeps lying there. Dead to the world, unable to hear Jim, hear anything. Nothing moving except the slight twitch under his eyelids, the slight rise and fall of his chest as the seconds tick by.

Jim tries shaking him, even though it didn’t work the first time he did.

It doesn’t this time either.

 

Soon enough, Bones is there, along with Nurse Chapel, and they’re shuffling Jim out of the way but he’s happy to do whatever it is they ask, need, if it will make this situation end. Chapel clasps Spock’s eyes, makes the eyelids open, tries to make him aware with a light shining there, or maybe it’s to check something, Jim has no fucking idea. But whatever her and Bones expect, doesn’t happen.

“He’s not aware,” Bones says, now trying to shake Spock as well, having taken his vitals while Chapel had been doing the eye check. It does nothing. Spock is still just lying there.

Jim feels like a fucking monster. He’d pace, just keep dragging back and forth until the floor split apart and swallowed him, but he’s glued in place just watching as everything Bones and Chapel do seem to affect nothing. Change nothing.

He shouldn’t have worked Spock up. God, Spock collapsed less than a week ago! He shouldn’t have pushed him, he shouldn’t have gotten so goddamn clingy and needy and pushy and worked Spock up to something he wasn’t ready for or well enough for or -- fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Jim fucked up.

Spock should have told him he wasn’t feeling good, fuck. Spock could have said something, anything.

But instead that idiot said 'please' and 'yes' and Jim’s goddamn name like it was some kind of prayer. Yeah, well, Jim wishes it had been a fucking prayer to get better. Hell.

 

“What’s happened? What’s going on? What’s wrong with him?” Jim asks, at Bones’ side, as Chapel checks something on her scanner. They are moving too slow, unhurried, it irks Jim.

“I might as well have asked you that, Jim.” Jim thinks the barely-there flash of fear he sees go across Bones’s face, is because of whatever monstrosity Jim’s twisted his own into. “Look,” Bones placates, turning to Jim, “He’s not hurt. He’s in a Vulcan trance, which from what I can figure is, as usual, just a self healing state. His body’s gone into one in the past, and then he’ll pop out fresh as a fiddle, like nothing happened. I don’t see any reason why the same thing wouldn’t happen again. His vitals are all fine, his readings are consistent with a trance that’s on it’s way to full recovery, so I’m not seeing any reason to panic here Jim.”

Panic was the wrong word to use, Bones winces, tries to hide his reaction from Jim but it’s too hard, Jim is still at his side.

“I’m more concerned with what triggered it,” Bones glances down at Spock, serene and unmoving on the bed, then back up to meet Jim’s eyes, “Did something happen to him? Did he get hurt, did you notice anything like his collapse on the bridge a few days ago?”

“No. There wasn’t anything, any warning. He was fine, and we were talking, and -- he was looking at me, nothing about him was weak or shutting off or anything, Bones. Then, his eyes just roll back and his hands tense and then he’s like this. Unconscious.” Jim resists the urge to bite his nails, or itch, or kick, “Unresponsive.”

“No sign of exhaustion before he collapsed?” _At all_ , Bones doesn’t add, but Jim’s already internally boiling a bit over the fact Bones could even think Jim would leave that kind of information out.

Jim’s about to speak again, then closes his mouth, thinks. Lets his insides calm down a little, become as regimented as he’s holding himself on the inside. They need to figure this out, there is nothing helpful about being mad right now. He looks over at Spock on the bed, at Chapel typing something on the pad by her side as she sits next to him.

He grabs Bones lightly around the shoulder and pulls him a few feet away. The room seems bigger, now, with all the space being used, not just the bed.

Jim leans close to Bones, “We were having sex. That might have made him tired. I th -- I had thought it would be fine, because the day before, he was… was doing all sorts of stuff. That kind of stuff. And he was fine. More than fine.” Jim can’t stop glancing over at Spock, hoping he’ll wake up, remembers how just yesterday Spock was throwing Jim’s whole fucking body on the bed.

As if it were nothing. Spock had looked fine then, his eyes bright, color in his cheeks, well rested. Strong.

What the fuck happened.

“I guess I was wrong, and he wasn’t -- okay,” Jim says. But he doesn’t think it was the activity that made Spock collapse. Spock was doing fine, throwing people, grabbing things, manhandling him. No way it was physical exhaustion that did this.

Jim lets himself pace closer to the bed again, Bones in tow.

“I don’t think physical exhaustion is what made him drop. You need to find out why Spock is still not okay. Please. I think whatever happened to him on the bridge isn’t over, whatever caused what happened on the bridge.”

“I think you’re right.”

“I want this handled. This can’t keep happening. This isn’t good for him.” It can’t be. What if this had happened on a planet survey? What if it happened during an attack on the ship?

What if, this happens again, and Spock doesn’t wake up.

“He’ll be okay, Jim. We’ll figure this out.”


End file.
